The Soft Skeleton
by Solomynne
Summary: Sara is disturbed by terrible nightmares after taking on a case involving a mysterious young woman. She and Grissom work together to find out what happened, and Grissom becomes jealous after Sara is asked out on a date. GSR all the way baby.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey everyone, this is a new idea I'm trying out, so let me know what you think! I'm always open to critiques and suggestions, so let me hear from you, and thank you for reading.

Disclaimer: Jorja Fox is my lover. You can split the rest amongst yourselves.

The Soft Skeleton

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_I wish you were a song to play._

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The sun set the sky on fire.

Sinking like a stone, it hurled its brilliant magenta-orange flames across the desert horizon; the original definition of going out in a blaze of glory. Squinting at this fiery display, Sara reached an arm across Grissom, still keeping an eye on the road as she fished out her sunglasses from the glove compartment and put them on.

Grissom watched her silhouette, wind teasing her hair across her face, one freckled arm resting on the window ledge. Neither of them said a word as they drove along the endless highway, letting the hum of the tires and the wind whistling past their windows speak for them. Keeping one hand on the small package he held in his lap, the reason that they were currently driving thousands of miles away from Las Vegas together, he put the other on her thigh and squeezed her gently.

She didn't take her eyes off the road, but he watched as a soft smile played across her lips. They still had miles to go before they would sleep, miles and miles.

And that was okay.

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She got the call at two in the afternoon, in the middle of a dead sleep.

She didn't even wake up until the third or fourth ring, opening bleary eyes and reaching towards the night table to grab her trilling cell phone. The only problem was, the night table wasn't there, her arm swiping lamely at empty air. Sara lifted her head in confusion and realized that she'd fallen asleep right where she'd landed when she got home from her double shift: face down on the couch. The phone continued to ring as she pushed herself up off the couch, swiping her hair out of her eyes. "Alright, alright," she groaned irritably, fishing it out from between the cushions and glancing at the call display.

She knit her eyebrows in confusion and flipped her phone open, "Sidle."

"Sara? It's me, I need you."

She looked at the ceiling momentarily, sighing and allowing herself a brief 'what if' moment._ What if he meant that the way I wished he did?_

"You there?" he asked, sounding concerned.

"Yes, I'm here," she said, closing her eyes and smiling to herself. "Where do you need me?"

"I'm at the Siren's Inn, room 219. How soon can you be here?"

"You do know I only got home from work four hours ago?"

His voice softened, "I know, I'm sorry, but there's no one else. This case was presented to me two minutes before shift ended so it's still technically nightshift's jurisdiction, I can't just stick it on days."

She let her head fall back on the couch with a sigh, "I'll be right there."

"Thank you," he replied quickly, hanging up without so much as a goodbye. She snapped her phone shut, annoyed at the fact that he had basically just assumed she would have nothing better to do, that there was nothing else she'd _rather _do than drop everything and come running. Muttering to herself grouchily she hoisted herself up and went to go change, flipping the TV. on as she walked past. The news was on, the chipper voices of the reporters filtering into the bedroom where she was undressing.

"_And now it's time for the weather report with our meteorologist Tom Lawrence, Tom what have you got for us?"_

"_Well Linda it's looking like another beautiful day in Las Vegas with highs of 37 and not a cloud in the sky."_

The warm afternoon sun filtering in through her curtains, she stripped quickly, fishing around in her drawers for something to wear. Normally she only had two criteria for work clothing 1) it had to be clean 2) it had to be something she wouldn't mind getting blood or some other bodily fluid on. But today, for whatever reason, (and she would not allow herself to think that reason was Grissom), she just wanted to look…_nice._ After standing in front of her dresser for two straight minutes, the golden sunlight dancing playfully on her bare skin, she finally gave up on the idea and threw on a black, stretchy shirt and her favorite jeans. If she couldn't look nice in what she felt most comfortable in, then she didn't want to.

She walked into the living room and grabbed her car keys off the table as the reporter finished his broadcast, grinning ridiculously from ear to ear. "_It's weather like this that makes you happy to be alive, don't you agree?" _ She scowled at the screen and shut it off, heading for the door.

"Oh, shove it, Tom."

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Sara entered the motel room fifteen minutes later, ducking past the yellow tape and nodding to the officers on-scene. The room was stuffy and hot, not built for so many people. The smell of copper hung thickly in the stifling air, always a bad sign. Brass was standing next to the large, wall-length living room window, a view of the seedy E Street visible behind him as he scribbled in his notepad, interviewing a very distraught looking cleaning woman. The maid twisted her apron in her hands and spoke quickly, in a frantic, high-pitched tone, the cheerful sunlight looking out of place on the gloomy expression she wore. Sara passed them and headed for the bedroom, knowing exactly where to find it.

She had worked enough hotel cases to know the exact standard layout for every major hotel and motel in the county, living area as you walk in, bedroom and en-suite bathroom off to the left.

She had to push her way past four police officers before she managed to get to the bedroom, and as soon as she entered she wished that she hadn't. Every so often she would come across a scene like this, one where you could still feel the chilling presence of the victim's soul in the room, sticking to your skin like damp morning air. The feeling of a human soul is one that is as unmistakable as it is unexplainable; a feeling that wraps around your heart, weaves through your rib cage, flutters in your chest, and rattles your mind.

She shivered and shook her head, willing the feeling to go away, but it only intensified as she walked in further and took in the gruesome scene before her. Arterial spray painted the bland walls with slashes of crimson that trailed eerily down to the floor, the victim herself spread naked across the bed like an offering. The daylight streamed into the dimly-lit room through the blinds, slicing her smooth belly. Sara came closer and noticed the gaping wound that slit across the victim's delicate throat from ear to ear, like a second angry mouth.

Her mass of wild, red curls fell over the edge of the bed, which is where Sara found Grissom, crouching to take a photo of the blood pool that had collected on the floor. "Hey," she said, the greeting coming out of her in a nervous hush.

Grissom looked up from what he was doing and nodded to her. "Thanks for coming Sara, I owe you one."

"Don't think I won't collect," she smirked at him, attempting to shake off the ominous gloom that was engulfing her. "Where do you want me?"

"I'm almost done in here, female stabbing victim, no clothes, no purse, no ID. I need you to interview the hotel manager that was on the scene, he's out in the hall with a uniform."

"I'm on it," she said, turning to leave, grateful to have an excuse to exit the creepy room.

"Get his prints!" Grissom called after her as she made her way back out to the hall. She was tempted to shout back that she didn't need him to tell her how to do her job, but she bit her tongue. It was a new thing she was trying, thinking before speaking. So far she wasn't liking it.

Sara walked out into the hallway and looked around, spotting a well dressed, very attractive man in his mid thirties standing with an officer. "Hello," she called, walking towards them. Her standard greeting flew from her mouth automatically, "My name is Sara Sidle I'm with the crime lab, would you mind answering a few questions?"

The suited man looked at her with an interested expression as she walked towards him. His eyes darted across her body like a car salesman sizing up a Ferrari; noting her long legs, bright eyes and slim figure. "Sure, I'm here to help," he answered. Sara thought he spoke like a game-show host, with a voice that was slick as oil and sweet as honey.

"Good," she said slowly, taken aback not only at how charm seemed to be oozing from his very pores; but at how nervous he was making her. She quickly looked away, setting her kit on the floor and opening it up. As she knelt, Sara felt his eyes watching her every move while she began to get out what she needed, her cheeks burning from the attention. She stood too fast, dropped her printing ink, ducked down to get it, and straightened up in a frazzled huff. The manager looked as though he were fighting the urge to laugh as she swiped a stray curl out of her eyes and asked seriously, cheeks burning, "Would you mind holding out your hands please?"

His smile vanished, replacing itself with an offended expression while his hands remained firmly at his side. "I thought you said all you wanted was to ask a few questions."

A patronizing smile crept across her face as she answered back, "I thought you said you were here to help." He frowned with his arms crossed, and Sara watched as a perfect dimple formed on his brow, sending her stomach into twists. She sighed, "Look Mr.…"

"Tresemer, William Tresemer," he replied.

"Mr. Tresemer, I'm just trying to rule you out as a suspect so I can get on with my investigation, it's nothing personal."

His frown broke into a small smile, showing a glimpse of even, white teeth. "Well, since you asked so politely."

"Thank you," she smiled, taking hold of the proffered hand. His fingernails were very well taken care of, his palms smooth and soft. So unlike Grissom's which were rough and callused from working with so many harsh chemicals in his experiments.

"So can you tell me what happened here?" she asked.

"Well, not really," He answered sheepishly. "I got a call from one of the maids; she said that she had found blood in the living room of one of the suites. I came up to check it out and found that woman dead in the bedroom."

"Did you touch anything?" Sara asked, pressing his pinky against the print card, the ridges rolling across the white paper like lines on a map.

"No, to be honest I was pretty freaked out. I got the Hell out of there as fast as I could."

He continued to keep his eyes on her face as she went to work, the feeling of his gaze starting to make her even more nervous.

"Are you trying to intimidate me or something?" she asked frankly, glancing up and motioning for his other hand. He handed it over with a crooked smile and continued to observe her intently as she finished printing him.

"Is it so wrong to want to look at a beautiful woman?" he asked, closing his fingers a little around hers. She looked up at him, surprised.

"Is everything okay out here?" Grissom's voice cut through the air.

Sara turned to see him standing just behind her with his arms crossed, an un-impressed look on his face. "Yeah, I'm just finishing up here," she answered, hoping he wouldn't see her flushed cheeks. She didn't know why, but Grissom finding her like that had made her feel a slight twang of guilt, as though she were a child being caught with one hand in the cookie jar.

"Alright," he answered quietly. "Well when you're done I need your help in the bathroom."

"Okay, I'll be right there," she answered quickly, turning back to Tresemer and cringing slightly. She heard Grissom walk away and Tresemer watched her as she smiled softly to herself, hoping she hadn't just imagined Grissom's jealous tone. She printed the last of the manager's fingers, working diligently and efficiently, as always, and sealed the card in an envelope, tucking it back in her kit. "Thank you for your time Mr. Tresemer," she said, standing. He watched with amused curiosity as she reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a business card. "Here's my number at the lab. If you think of anything else, I'd appreciate it if you could give me a call."

"Of course," he said, taking the card and glancing at it before tucking it inside his jacket. "Is that your…personal number?"

She smiled and turned on her heel, "Have a nice day Mr. Tresemer."

"Please, call me Will!" he called after her.

She rolled her eyes, still smiling, and walked back into the suite. "Hey," she said to Grissom, watching him as he bagged a small piece of evidence on the bathroom floor. He didn't look up. After waiting a moment, as if to show that he didn't feel the need to acknowledge her right away, he said frostily, "You seemed to be getting along with the manager quite nicely."

Her face fell and she scowled down at him, "What are you talking about?"

He continued to look anywhere but at her, replying, "It's just that he seemed to be smiling at you an awful lot."

"It's called being friendly. You know, personable? You should try it sometime."

His eyes finally met hers, and when they did they were burning with something she couldn't quite put her finger on. "All I'm saying is, he seemed to be taking quite a bit of interest in you."

She put her hands on her hips, "Is that a problem for you?"

He closed his kit and stood, "No. Forget I said anything."

She continued to look at him, not disappointed, not angry. She was used to this kind of behavior from him, and it was that more than anything that bothered her.

He left the room with a quiet request to print the sink, leaving her standing alone with her thoughts.

Sara set her kit down and frowned at herself in the mirror, her pale skin and irritated face looking back at her with an expression that read, "_Why do you still put up with it_?" She glared at her reflection for bringing up such a sore topic and gripped the sides of the sink, taking a deep breath in and holding it, her eyes closed. Sighing softly, Sara let her breath out and bent down, getting out her print powder and duster. She stood quickly, glancing at the mirror just in time to see the image of a paper-white face and bright, green eyes staring back at her.

She screamed and wheeled around, her eyes darting to the area behind her where the person, a young woman, had been standing, but found no one. Panicked, she took a lurching step backward, tripping over her kit and landing hard on her back. A white-hot streak of pain surged up her spine, nestling itself achingly at the base of her skull, while her head smacked against the ground as she landed, jaws clacking together sharply. Sara opened her eyes moments later to the spinning image of Grissom's concerned face. He reached down and put an arm behind her for support, sitting her up. "Sara, are you okay?!" he asked in bewilderment, his eyes searching her face. "What happened?"

She stared at him for a moment, dazed, and then tried to explain. "There was a…" she pointed to the mirror, "I saw a…that is I think I saw…" she sighed. "Never mind. I must be imagining things."

His arm still around her he put his other hand under her chin, looking into her eyes for signs of a concussion. Without seeming to realize, he grazed his thumb gently across her cheek, clucking his tongue softly. "Are you sure you're okay? Maybe you should go home and get some sleep after all." She shook her head, wishing he could keep his arm around her like that for a little longer.

"I'm fine, I promise." She looked at him and he noticed, not for the first time, the golden flecks in her brown eyes. He marveled at the way they caught the light that poured in from the grimy window, shining like phantom treasure. They sat that way together on the cheap, filthy motel bathmat, the smell of pine cleaner and complimentary soap thick in the air, until Brass walked in a few moments later.

He cleared his throat and turned so his back was to them, as though to give them privacy. "Grissom, we need you in the hall for a second."

"I'll be right there, Jim, Sara just took a bit of a spill. Can we get her an ice pack?"

"I'm on it," replied the detective, walking away without looking back.

Grissom looked back to Sara, "Are you sure you're alright? I can call Catherine."

"I thought you said I was the only person who was available," she asked suspiciously, her eyes narrowing, a playful light flickering in them.

"Officer Reid?" he called, ignoring her. The burly officer stepped forward. "Would you mind staying with Ms. Sidle while she finishes processing the room? She took a hit to the head, and I need you to call me if she looks dizzy or disoriented." The officer nodded, Grissom standing and reaching down to help Sara up. "Call me if you need anything," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze and exiting the bathroom.

The officer stepped forward and stood like a sentinel in the doorway, watching Sara intently. "Great," she muttered to herself, bending down to retrieve her print powder from where it had fallen. It was thoughtful of Grissom but she wasn't sure she wanted a spectator. She felt crazy enough as it was. She stood again and glanced nervously at the mirror; nothing except her own face, full of an expectant dread, looked back at her. She stared a moment longer, making sure that nothing would appear, feeling more and more stupid for having been so frightened in the first place.

"Ms. Sidle?" the officer's gruff voice broke her concentration, and she realized that she had been staring at the mirror for quite some time. "Are you alright?" he asked professionally.

"Yeah, sorry, just thought I saw a partial print here, but it's nothing," she replied quickly, embarrassed. Reid nodded and stepped back, resuming his position while Sara began printing the sink. She glanced up nervously every few moments to make sure the mirror continued to reflect only that which was really in the room, and although it remained empty she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. She felt the strong gaze of someone's eyes on her back, the hairs on her neck rising. She shook her head, shivering in the room that felt suspiciously colder than when she had entered it. "Get a hold of yourself, Sidle," she said softly.

Sara finished the sink and turned her attention to the bath tub, kneeling on the cold tiles. Starting at the tap, she swept her dusting brush gracefully across the rim of the tub, its long bristles swaying like the skirt of a ballet dancer. The black powder landed gently on the smooth porcelain surface, but revealed nothing. No prints. Sighing, Sara turned to stand, but froze like a deer in the headlights at the sound of something metallic clinking to the ground. Her heart pounding wildly in her ears, not even the presence of the large police officer that stood only a few paces away could comfort her.

Face pale, mouth open apprehensively, the curious criminalist in her won over against the strong urge to bolt from the room at top speed. She held on to the bathtub's lip, hands slipping on the thin layer of black print dust she had created, and leaned across, looking over to the ground on the other side of the claw-foot tub. A small, silver ring lay innocently on the grimy tile; an onyx stone set in it that was so truly black it seemed to suck in any light that dared to hover around it. "Where did _you_ come from?" she spoke aloud, no longer concerned with whether Officer Reid thought she was insane. She picked it up with a gloved hand and observed it in the light, turning it to see if it had any markings or engravings. Finding nothing, the feeling of unease she'd had ever since she set foot in the motel increased, sitting like a stone in her belly. She bagged it and finished printing the bathroom as fast as she could, now more anxious than ever to leave.

Task completed, she threw everything in her kit, snapped it shut and left the room, making a point to look straight ahead as she walked past the mirror. She sidled past Reid just as Grissom was re-entering the hotel room. He had an ice pack in hand which he held to the back of her head gently. "Keep this on for at least ten minutes; it'll help to reduce swelling." She nodded and took hold of the pack, too disturbed at what she had experienced to say anything. "Well we've done all we can here for now," Grissom said, glancing around the room and mentally checking over everything he had done. Most of the officers and hotel employees had left, leaving a trail of evidence markers and paper coffee cups in their wake. "I think it's time to head back to the lab and start processing some of this, don't you?"

"Grissom," Sara replied quietly, leading the way out the eerie hotel room, "I couldn't agree more."

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The ride to the lab was quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Grissom was driving Sara's car, reminding her as they walked to the parking lot that it probably wasn't the best idea for her to be driving after she'd taken a hit to the head.

The lights of the strip flew past as Sara leaned her head tiredly on the window. It was early evening and the neon signs strained to show their luminescence through the light of the setting sun, only managing to look garish as the natural golden light put them to shame.

Grissom watched her at every opportunity, the way she listlessly leaned her head on the window, hands limp in her lap, began to concern him. They sat at a red light and he followed her eyes to a spot on the windshield she had been staring at for the past two minutes. "Penny for your thoughts?" he ventured, his words hovering between them, fragile, brittle.

She continued to stare blankly for a moment, making him think perhaps she hadn't heard him at all, when she suddenly spoke in a soft, un-Sara voice, "Grissom do you believe in ghosts?"

The light turned green and he eased on the gas, pulling down the sun visor. "While there has never been any conclusive proof that they exist, there hasn't been any concrete evidence to suggest that they don't either. After all, absence of proof isn't proof of absence."

"You didn't answer my question," she said, looking at him for the first time since they had gotten in the car.

"I would have to say that I, like any good scientist, remain open minded about things that man has yet to understand." His answer seemed to comfort her a little, her face softening. She didn't reply, only nodded respectfully "Sara what's this all about?" he asked gently, "Are you feeling okay?"

She let out a small breath of air; a sharp, mirthless laugh. "You know that feeling you get when you're holding a brimming cup of coffee, and you realize you're going to sneeze? I'm kind of feeling like that."

"Like…you're about to sneeze?" he asked teasingly, glancing at her as he made the turn into the CSI parking lot.

She looked at him seriously, "Like I'm about to get burned."

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I hope you liked it and thanks for reading! (revieeeeew!)


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Here's the second chapter, I hope you all enjoy it, please let me know what you think okay? And thanks so much in advance for reading! Love on you all,_

_- Solomynne_

_Disclaimer: Nope!_

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_- His value declined when he offered his name._

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A shiver began to run its way up Sara's spine in the cool temperature of the morgue, starting at the base and creeping up her back like a cold finger. She pulled her lab coat tighter around her body and tried to convince herself that it really was the temperature that was making her shiver, and not the strikingly green eyes of the victim that stared up at her, eyes with almost too much life in them.

Eyes that she was sure she had seen before.

"…Sara?" Doc Robbin's voice brought her out of her trance. "Did you catch that?"

Sara looked from the coroner to Grissom, who was looking at her across the slab with concern in his eyes. She shook her head and smiled too quickly, "Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts for a second."

Doc Robbins nodded patiently at her and repeated himself, "Your Jane Doe's last few moments on Earth were very violent, very angry. She was beaten repeatedly with a cylindrical object, most likely a pipe, or a golf club before her throat was slit, which caused her to bleed out; making her COD exsanguination."

Sara nodded slowly and then stopped as her eyes reached the smooth, milky skin of the victim's bare chest and stomach, the porcelain perfection only slightly mottled by the large stitches of the y-incision. Grissom watched Sara as a small crease formed between her eyebrows, her bottom lip drawing up to purse her mouth in confusion. "Doc…if she was beaten why are there no signs of bruising, or lacerations? She doesn't have so much as a scratch on her."

Nodding, Doc Robbins leaned past Sara to take hold of the cadaver's side, motioning with his head for Grissom to give him a hand. The limbs of the victim flopped sickly as the two men rolled her over, her distinct too-red hair spilling over the side of the autopsy table like blood. Sara's eyes widened as lily-white skin slowly gave way to an aching purple. The girl's back and upper thighs were covered in bruises and welts, the impression of a long, thin object visible in the shape of her wounds. Sara felt her throat tighten slightly in empathy as she thought of how painful it must have been, her eyes flitting from one injury to the next; a roadmap of pain and torture.

She jumped a little, Grissom's voice startling her as he commented, "I don't see any defensive wounds, or signs that she was bound." He held up one of the girl's hands, showing smooth, uninjured palms and wrists.

"How could she just let someone do this to her without even trying to fight back?" Sara asked in a whisper, unable to take her eyes from the victim's body.

"My guess is she didn't," Grissom said, staring at her as she stared at the girl. "Doc, send a blood sample to trace for a tox report."

"Already did, half an hour ago," he replied, grunting as they flipped the girl back over.

"Did you manage to make an ID?" Sara asked, taking a step back from the table and rubbing her upper arms with another shiver.

"I've been busy with a three-car pile up, all I had time for was the initial autopsy. I haven't taken her prints or gotten fingernail scrapings yet."

"I can take care of it," Sara offered.

"I was hoping you would say that," the coroner said, smiling. "I have enough to do as it is." He handed her a file for the fingernail scrapings and left to make a call, his cane clipping the floor with a metallic ring at every step.

"So I'll finish up here, then meet you to go through the evidence?" Sara asked, looking at Grissom. She stepped forward to start printing the girl, but stopped when she noticed that Grissom hadn't moved. He was looking at her with the same frowning expression he'd had since their altercation in the hotel bathroom. She sighed, "What is it?"

"I think you're starting to get too involved in this case, Sara."

"What makes you say that?" she asked quietly, crossing her arms across her chest defensively.

"The fact that you've barely taken your eyes away from the victim since she was brought in," he answered matter-of-factly. "I see the way you look at her Sara; it's the same look you get every time you start to take a case too personally. It's the look you get when you stay up for three straight days trying to find a missing person's description in the police database. You're going to start… losing yourself in your anger, Sara."

She stared at him across the table, feeling a strange sort of embarrassment at having the conversation in front of the Jane Doe, as though the corpse would judge her for it. "Grissom, I'm fine. I know in the past I've gotten a little…over-zealous. But I've had my sessions with my P.E.A.P. councilor, I'm learning to deal with my 'me problem'. And I'm telling you that this case has nothing to do with any of that."

He looked at her skeptically, making her drop her crossed arms in defeat. "Alright," she admitted, "it has a little to do with that. But no more so than any other case that I work. Grissom," she took at step toward him, closing the distance between them, "please don't pull me off this case."

He saw the pleading look in her eyes, innocent and open, but he also saw behind that innocence a dangerous fire burning inside of her. His heart fought with his head for a moment, but soon the heart came out victorious, as practically always. He sighed, rubbing his forehead wearily. "Alright, you can stay." He watched her face break into a relieved smile. " _For now,_" he cautioned, "But if I see you slipping…"

"You won't," she replied firmly. "Promise."

"I'm going to hold you to that," he said, jabbing his finger at her as if to emphasize his point.

Sara smiled as he walked away, continuing to look at the door after he was gone. Moments later she turned her attention back to the table, her eyes fixed on the Jane Doe's face. Those eyes; those green eyes. She was sure they were the ones she had seen in the mirror. _No, _she corrected herself quickly, _the eyes you _imagined _you saw in the mirror._

Sara shook her head in a small movement, a slight twitch intended to knock unwanted thoughts from her mind so she could get to work. The Jane Doe waited patiently for her to compose herself, staring at a spot on the ceiling as Sara took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the fingernail file in her hand, allowing its sharp edges to prick against her palm and bring her back to reality.

Sara tucked a loose hair behind her ear and closed her fingers around the Jane Doe's small, fragile wrist. The thought came to her that this was the first time she had actually ever touched the young woman, and as soon as this crossed her mind, another realization came to her. _Why is her hand so warm? _She dropped the limp wrist immediately as she felt the heat in it, the life in it. Jane's hand flopped back to the metal slab heavily and Sara took a quick step backwards, clamping a hand over her mouth. She looked towards the door, debating whether or not she should get Grissom, but ultimately decided against it. She knew he would pull her off the case. Frowning in distress, Sara bit her lip and came back to the table, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to think rationally as she once again grabbed one of Jane's wrists. The dead woman's skin was cold and clammy through her gloves, just like any other body she had ever touched.

"What the hell…?" she said aloud, her mind whirling for some kind of rational explanation.

"Something wrong?" a voice just over her left shoulder asked.

Sara jumped, dropping her file and Jane's wrist – again, the small hand hanging limply off the edge of the table. "Damn it, Greg!" she sighed, spinning around to confront her sheepish-looking co-worker. "Don't just sneak up behind people like that, especially not in a morgue!"

Greg Sanders put his arms up in defense, "Sorry, I didn't realize you were so jumpy."

"I'm not jumpy, I just…I'm just tired that's all." She exhaled with relief, putting a hand over her hammering heart. "What do you need?"

"Grissom told me to come and give you a hand," he said, looking over Sara's shoulder to check out the corpse behind her.

"You mean Grissom told you to come and keep an eye on me," she said accusingly, stepping aside and blocking his view of the girl, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"What?" he asked, his brown eyes darkening with confusion, "I came in early and Grissom said to come and help you finish up so we could go over what you guys found today." He gave her a sideways, suspicious look, "Why would you need someone to keep an eye on you?"

She turned back to the corpse with a quiet, "Never mind." He looked at her, her eyes cast down to where she had begun to scrape underneath ice-blue fingernails, and knew for the moment it would be better not to push it. She walked around and began on the other hand, her mouth drawn into a frown of concentration as she actively avoided Greg's gaze, and any further questions.

"So what can I do to help?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. He handed Sara an evidence label, she took it without looking up and sealed it across the mouth of the envelope containing the scrapings.

"You can print her so I can take these to DNA." She answered as she handed him the ink pad from her kit, the solemn expression on her face breaking into an apologetic smile as she met his eyes, knowing she had been cold with him. He took it with a "forget about it" smirk and held his hand out for a print card. Sara tossed him one with a wink and turned on her heel, smiling to herself in the blue light of the morgue as she passed through the swinging doors.

She liked their relationship.

It was honest.

It was simple.

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Grissom was hunched over a pile of crime scene photos in the evidence room, their glossy horror spread across the table like a gruesome art exhibit. Sara leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he pored over a close-up image of the Jane Doe's wound. He was wearing a magnifying glass over one eye; and she smiled softly to herself as she was reminded of a mad scientist from a black and white horror movie.

He looked up, one large blue eye blinking at her through the magnifier, "Something funny?"

"Yeah," she answered, walking inside the room and standing across the table from him. "Someone thought they'd get Greg to baby-sit me and make sure I didn't go off the deep end." She picked up a picture and looked at it carefully, then glanced over the top of it at him. "Funny, huh? You know anything about that?"

He took the magnifier attachment off of his glasses and looked up at her seriously. "No one is baby-sitting you Sara." He shrugged dismissively, "He wanted to help and I wasn't in the mood to have him hovering over my shoulder, so I sent him to help you. And for _that_, I'm sorry." He put the magnifier back on and looked up at her. "Am I forgiven?"

She smiled, her lips pursing characteristically. "Aren't you always?"

He smirked with satisfaction and motioned for her to sit down, turning his attention back to the photo in his hand. "Did you find anything interesting in the morgue?"

Sara stared through the picture she was looking at, frozen at the memory of Jane's warm hand in her own. She swallowed, "Uh, no, nothing interesting. I sent the fingernail scrapings to trace and Greg is--"

"Excuse me," a silky voice cut Sara off mid-sentence.

Both she and Grissom looked up to see William Tresemer filling the doorway, his hands folded behind his back, feet apart. "Hello Sara," he greeted, flashing her a smile that could have graced the cover of GQ. "How are you?"

"Will…" she stammered, at a loss. "I think you've met Grissom, my boss." She gestured to Grissom who sat up straight with a very unpleasant expression on his face. Tresemer nodded at him quickly, dismissing him as though Sara had just introduced her pet cat. Sara stared from William to Grissom and back again, her mouth slightly open in curious expectation.

"How did you get in here?" Grissom asked bluntly, his eyes, one still magnified, narrowing suspiciously.

William completely ignored Grissom, keeping his eyes on Sara as he replied, "I actually came here to see you, Sara."

"Me?" Sara gaped, pointing to herself in disbelief, as though he could have been referring to someone else.

"Yes," Tresemer asked, laughing, "of course."

"Did you remember something about the case?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No, no nothing about the case." He walked further into the room, leaning on the table and casually picking up a crime scene shot.

Grissom plucked it out of his hand and swept the remaining photos back into the manila folder asking, "So what do you want then?"

Sara frowned at the sudden change in Grissom's attitude, but Will barely even took notice of her superior's stinging comments. "I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me," he replied, smiling down at Sara.

Grissom's face went completely blank, his lips tightly pressed together. He looked across the table at Sara, studying her face for a reaction. She was looking up at Tresemer with a tiny, surprised smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The light from underneath the glass of the evidence table glowed on her face, illuminating her graceful features. It traced the line of her lips, danced along the slender shadow of her collarbone, lit her warm, brown eyes. It frightened him to look at her like this, these moments when he not only saw her, how beautiful she was; but saw through her as well.

Into her.

There had always been a connection between them; even he had to admit that. And even though he had never been brave enough to tell her so, never been honest with himself about his feelings for her, that connection that hovered between them like an invisible thread joining their hearts was a bond he would never be able to break; even if it could save him from the heartache that he was so very afraid of.

His mouth went dry as he waited for her answer, feeling that thread wrapping around his heart and squeezing it like barbed wire. The small smile on her face broke into a full grin, the space between her teeth making his breath hitch, like always.

"I'd love to," she answered.

Sara looked across the table at Grissom and saw him staring at her strangely. She'd caught him looking like that at her a few times before, and it always made her sad for some reason. But she was tired of Grissom making her sad, and that's why she had said yes to Will. She definitely didn't feel anything special for Will, nothing like what she felt for Grissom, but if she ever _was _going to feel that way about someone, then she had to start somewhere. And the incredibly gorgeous man smiling at her seemed like a great jumping off point. Or just a great jumping point.

"Great!" Will exclaimed, Sara looking away from Grissom to smile up at him.

"Why don't you call me with the details later?" she asked, suddenly anxious to get him away from her boss. He nodded, gave her shoulder a squeeze, and left with the promise that he would call. A strange twist of guilt wound through Sara's chest as she looked back at Grissom, but the guilt was intertwined with a certain smugness at the jealousy that this altercation seemed to have evoked in him.

In her opinion, a little heartache on his side was far overdue, considering her own track record with him. The pathetic, sulking attitude he seemed to have adopted as he silently flipped the folder back open, removing the photos, started to piss her off. He made her feel as though he didn't want her, but he didn't want anyone else to have her either. "Is something the matter?" she asked him in a challenging tone.

"Of course not," he said quietly, refusing to look at her. He was staring so intently at a photo that Sara almost believed he might actually be studying it, had it not been a test shot from one of the cameras.

"Then why are you staring at a shot of your own foot?"

He put the photo down at looked at her. "I just don't think it's very professional to be picking up guys while you're at work." Her stomach twisted with a slithering anger as he continued. "Especially not one that is a potential suspect."

Sara's brown eyes narrowed, "Do you really think I'm going to be giving him case details while we're on a date? Classified information? Honestly Grissom, who do you think I am?"

He looked at her with so much pain in his eyes that her anger vanished, leaving her feeling empty, and afraid. "I'm not so sure anymore," he answered. Sara's mouth went dry, different emotions flying through her so fast she didn't know what she was feeling as she abruptly stood, her chair screeching on the floor. Catherine walked in just as Sara made her tight-lipped exit, brushing past the blonde without a word.

Catherine watched Sara storm down the hall, dark curls spilling over her face as she jammed her hands into her pockets like an angst-y teenager, and then turned back to Grissom with a bewildered look. "What the hell was that about?" she asked, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder.

Grissom sighed and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose as Catherine took a seat across from him. "I don't know, exactly. But I'm pretty sure it was my fault."

"What else is new?" Catherine scoffed, leaning her elbows on the table and looking at him sternly. "This wouldn't by any chance have anything to do with the very good looking guy in a suit that just left, would it?"

Grissom stared at her, "Why do you say that?"

Cath rolled her eyes, "Oh Grissom, when are you ever going to get a clue?" She sat up straight, her cornflower-blue eyes locking onto his, making sure he was listening to her every word. "Pay attention, because I'm only going to tell you this one last time, and then you're on your own. You have two options here." She held up two manicured fingers to further emphasize her point. "One: let her go, and be happy for her. She deserves it, and she won't fully be able to move on without your blessing, as messed up as that is." Catherine pulled her lips into a tight grin, an "oh-well-what-can-you-do" face. "Your second option," she continued, "and my personal favorite, is simple. Stop doubting, stop worrying, stop over-thinking, and just _go get her_."

Grissom put his glasses back on, "It's not that easy Catherine, there's a lot of history betwe--"

Catherine put up her hand, silencing him. "Ah-ah, I don't want to hear it. If you're going to rationalize your way out of things then that's your prerogative, not mine." She sighed, "Well, my work here is done. I got a call from Brass about a 4-19 out in Henderson, I'm taking Warrick with me, okay?"

He nodded at her vaguely as she stood. She went to leave, but stopped, looking down at him with a softened look on her face. Not pity, simply understanding. "Hey Grissom?" she whispered, putting her hand on his. "She does care about you. Trust me on that. And believe me when I say that you're never going to find someone better suited to you." She laughed, flashing a warm, reassuring smile. "I mean how many beautiful, intelligent women are you going to come across that find an entomologist attractive?" She winked at him and walked away, leaving him feeling much lighter than when she had arrived. He smiled gently to himself as he watched her go.

He liked their relationship.

It was honest.

It was simple.

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Sara sat down in the break room, sinking into the couch and flinging an arm over her face. She was so tired it seemed like even her fingernails ached. All she wanted was to forget the last few hours of her life, and start over. She had intended on going to the break room for a cup of tea to keep her going, but as soon as she lay back on the couch it was over; her eyelids slammed shut like they were magnetized.

Consciousness slid away from her, letting her mind melt into another place, a darker place. She smelled fear on her skin, and sweat. She could see nothing, but there was the sound of screaming in the air, an animalistic keening, primitive in its fear. It took Sara moments to realize that the sound was coming from her own mouth.

She felt heavy, paralyzed. Her back was on fire. Before her eyes came flashes of young hands, fluttering over her face like butterflies, white skin in a black abyss. The screams had turned to moaning, a whining whimper. The air in her mouth felt hot, and wet. It tasted of metal and darker things. A black ring spun on the floor, the only thing allowed in her vision.

Its onyx stone began growing larger and larger until its blackness grew so much that it swallowed itself in its own gaping maw. Sara writhed against bonds she couldn't see or feel, wept with fear against something she had no idea even existed. Her heart was exploding with pain, raw and pulsating.

"Sara?"

She felt strong arms on her wrists, holding her down. Sara screamed out loud and opened her eyes, Grissom staring down at her in awe. She blinked in confusion, breathing heavily and looking around the room for phantom intruders.

"Are you okay?" Grissom sat down on the edge of the couch, her hands still in his.

Sara, still basking in that sweet "it-was-only-a-dream" feeling, smiled in relief. "Yeah you could say that." She was panting, her heart hammering as the fear ebbed from her bloodstream. Her thoughts started to organize themselves as she felt the sweat on her forehead cooling, trying to remember the fragments of her dream before they slipped away like wisps of smoke.

_Hands, small hands…_

She frowned, looking past Grissom to something only she could see. "Grissom, when you collected evidence from the hotel room, were there any signs that a child had been there?"

"A child?" He looked at the floor, scanning his well-organized brain for an answer. "No. Why do you ask?"

She bit her bottom lip, still looking past him, "I'm not sure yet."

Grissom squeezed her fingers in his, looking at her with uncertainty. "Sara I wanted to talk to you…"

The tone in his voice made Sara snap out of her reverie and look at him with curiosity. "What is it?"

He opened his mouth to continue, but Brass walked in, snapping his phone shut and entering the room. The two of them pulled their hands apart as he approached, sitting up a little straighter. "Pack your kits you two; I need you at the Easy Inn Motel on Tropicana as soon as you can be there."

Sara and Grissom glanced at each other in confusion, then back to Brass who had already filled his coffee mug and was halfway out the door.

"Brass!" Sara called, making him stop, his coffee slopping precariously. She shook her head, holding her hands out, palms up. "Where's the fire? We're already in the middle of a hot case, can't someone else do this?"

"This one's related," he said, motioning for them to get up and follow. "We've got another one." With that he headed out the door, padding down the hall with his cell phone once again pressed to his ear.

Grissom looked back to Sara, whose eyes reflected the same sense of foreboding he was feeling. "Oh dear."

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Hope you liked it, please leave a comment? (pretty please?)


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N__: Hey guys, hope you enjoy this one! Any and all comments are loved! Thanks so much for reading, and I'm going to reply to your comments, I swear. – Solomynne._

_Disclaimer: not mine!_

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_Love is a place._

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Everything was the same, down to the last detail.

Sara and Grissom entered the seedy hotel bedroom side-by-side, looking around in wide-eyed astonishment. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Sara whispered to Grissom, not sure why she felt it necessary to speak in hushed tones.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes not leaving the identically displayed slender body spread before them on the bed. "Never."

Sara set her kit down and walked the room, the distinct feeling of deja-vu making her feel unsettled. The room, the objects in it, the victim; everything had been placed exactly the way they had been in the first crime scene earlier. "How long do you think this took?" she asked, looking at Grissom as he bent down to take a photo of the same blood pool he had photographed earlier in the day.

"Hours," he replied simply. "This took hours to do. The killer would have had to take photos of the first crime, and then meticulously place each item in the exact spots as specified in the snapshots." He stood and looked around again. "Whoever our murderer is, they're patient. A definite perfectionist."

Sara photographed the victim, marveling at the realization that even the blankets had been wrinkled just so, to match the first scene. "It almost feels like a waste of time to process this scene, we just processed the same one a few hours ago." She smiled to indicate she was joking when he looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Kidding."

He smirked, "Good."

Sara eyed the walls, the long crimson arches splashing across in a macabre monotone rainbow. She studied the blood pattern for a moment, confusion washing across her face in the dim lighting. "Grissom…take a look at this." Grissom came to stand beside her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his body. "These blood patterns, from what I can remember, are _exactly_ the same as the scene where we found our first Jane Doe." She turned to him, her arms crossed. "Objects in the same spot, the body placed in the same spot, even the blood pool, that all makes sense. But blood spatter could never be recreated this accurately, could it? Not even if she was drugged so he could position her neck, there's too many variables."

He nodded at her, his eyes flitting over the walls with expertise. "No, you're right. We'll have to get shots of the last scene brought in to be sure, but from what I can tell, these are the…" he trailed off, stepping closer to the wall and taking out his flashlight to inspect something Sara couldn't see.

She watched him; his eyebrows knit in concentration. "What do you see?"

He looked at her with wonder in his eyes. "Brushstrokes."

"What?" Sara exclaimed, stepping up beside him with her nose practically touching the wall. It took her eyes a few moments to focus, but when they did she was certain he was right. Directly in the centre of the arch the blood had started to spread more thinly, revealing what was unmistakably marks left behind from some sort of paintbrush. She stepped back, her mouth open. "But this is real blood." Grissom nodded gravely. "So that means…" it was her turn to trail off this time, her eyes darkening as the reality of what they were looking at sank in.

"Yes," Grissom responded, fighting the urge to put his arms around her. "She was killed somewhere else, the blood was saved, then recreated to be like the first scene. I'm guessing whoever we are dealing with added some kind of anticoagulant to stop it from clotting. "

Sara couldn't take her eyes away from the walls, couldn't stop herself from marveling over the effort put into each calculated speck of spatter. "It takes a lot of hate to do something like this," she said softly, her brown curls snaking further down her back as she craned her neck to look at the highest point of blood. "Why else would someone go to all this trouble, right?" She glanced at Grissom who watched her with understanding. She turned away from him, looking at the victim for the first time. This girl also had red hair, but it wasn't the eerie blood-red of her predecessor. Her eyes were milky and vacant; there were no unsettling signs of life in them. The more Sara looked at her, the more comforted she became; she was sure this girl was nothing more than a corpse now. As this thought came to her, she once again became uneasy at the realization that that meant she _wasn't_ sure the first Jane Doe was simply a dead body.

She turned back to Grissom, bending to pick up her kit. "It makes you wonder what she could have done to make someone so angry, doesn't it?" He didn't answer her as she slipped past him and out the door, stating, "I'll take the living room."

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Brass arrived an hour later, bringing with him the photos of the first crime scene and a bad mood. Sara and Grissom worked diligently, and it didn't take them long to come to a consensus: the blood patterns - not to mention everything else - had been staged. Grissom had found a bristle from some kind of paintbrush dried in the blood on the walls, and it was immediately sent to trace, along with the second victim's prints and DNA. Brass watched them finish the last of their collection process, leaning against the wall. "Something the matter, Brass?" Sara asked him. She had noted the rather dour look he'd been wearing since he'd gotten on the scene, and although he wasn't exactly the Mr. Sunshine type, he was still not acting like the regular Jim Brass she knew.

"Ah," he waved a hand and looked away from her. "I don't know; something about this case seems off to me."

"Off?" she asked, snapping her kit shut.

He shrugged, making his signature brown suit wrinkle. "I don't know Sara, I can't explain it. After so many years on the job, sometimes a case just gives you a bad feel, you know?"

She smiled at him as she stood, "Yeah. I do."

He continued to stare out the window, the look in his eyes reflecting something dark back at her. "It really gets to me that he was probably killing this woman while we were all standing around trying to make sense of the first scene. I was interviewing some maid while this poor girl…"

"Brass," Sara stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing you could have done."

He pulled his face into a tight lipped smile, the kind of forced grimace-smile a person produces when they want to drop a subject but don't actually have anything to smile about. Sara knew that smile well enough to give his shoulder a squeeze and walk away, leaving him with his own thoughts. She stepped out into the hall, looking for Grissom to see if he was ready to leave. He was nowhere in sight, so she turned to go back into the room and caught sight of Will rounding the corner at the end of the hall, who greeted her with a surprised, 500 watt grin.

She smiled back at him, "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing!" he laughed as he approached. "My family owns six different motels around this area; I'm the general manager now that my father retired." His face took on a serious expression. "I got a call from the night shift manager; he told me you had another murder on your hands. I came in to see if there's anything I can do to help."

Sara sighed and shook her head, "Well we're just about done here, actually. Unless you have any surveillance on the grounds that I haven't seen, maybe a video camera?"

He shrugged apologetically, "Sorry, these aren't really the kinds of places that benefit from having video cameras. It unnerves the customers."

"Right," she smiled, closing her eyes.

"Hey Sara, have you finished in the living room?" Both she and William turned around, Grissom looking back at them from the doorway.

"Uh, y-yeah," Sara stammered, hoping this scene wouldn't end as explosively as the last one.

Grissom nodded, "Well, you've been all the help you can be for now. Why don't you take off, I'll see you tomorrow."

She screwed her face up in confusion, "Seriously?"

He raised his eyebrows with a crooked smile, "Do I sound like I'm joking?" He took a step further into the hall, "You've been on your feet for days, go home and get some sleep, you deserve it. I've got Greg to help me, I might even go grab a few hours of rest myself."

She frowned at him, clearly suspicious of this drastic change in attitude. "Alright, well…I guess I'll see you in a while then."

"Would you like to grab a bite before you head home?" Will chimed in, taking her kit for her.

She let it go a little reluctantly, glancing sideways at Grissom before answering, "Yeah, sure."

Grissom watched them walk away together, the calm look on his face dissolving the instant their backs were turned. He sighed and picked up his kit, walking down the hall in the opposite direction. The dirty lightbulbs lining the hallway cast an ugly yellow light on the dingy walls and threadbare carpet, doing nothing to help his mood. He felt defeated; stupid for thinking he'd had a chance to make things right with Sara. Catherine had been wrong, it was too late.

And he would just have to accept that.

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Sara looked at her watch for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes. She had previously thought it was impossible for time to actually slow down, but the date with Will was proving her wrong. He had taken her to a five-star steak house, having failed to ask her what she wanted to eat, which – what with her being a vegetarian – would not have been steak. She picked at her salad, the only thing on the menu that wasn't full of beef, and felt her stomach growl.

She wasn't the fancy restaurant type of girl; they were too uptight, too stiff. She liked the greasy spoon joints with waitresses named Fran who served you with a cigarette hanging out of painted lips. Ones where everything on the menu had a picture of it, and you got to sit in sticky plastic booths. It was those kinds of places she always went to with the guys after a long shift, and so it was those kinds of places that she felt at home in. She was feeling a little out of place in such a posh establishment when she was wearing jeans and smelled like she hadn't showered in two days, which she hadn't. Sara sighed and thought wistfully of the ridiculously good veggie-burgers she loved to order at Franks.

She had taken up the strategy of tuning in to the conversation with Will – though it was more like a monologue - to comment with an "Uh-huh," or an "Oh, really?" every so often, so she tore her mind away from home fries and vanilla milkshakes long enough to smile politely and say, "Mm-hmm."

Will had managed to tell her his entire life story, starting with how his father had dragged his family to Vegas from Ohio when he was fourteen to get into the hotel business. Unfortunately, things didn't quite go according to plans and he had ended up in the cheap motel business instead, which still seemed to have made them quite a bit of money. He was currently going on about the time he spent in college (trying to live up to his father's expectations) when Sara's phone trilled. Her heart skipped a beat and she snatched it out of her pocket like a starving person to a loaf of bread.

She read Greg's name on the call display and had to force herself not to leap out of her chair with relief. "I'm so sorry Will, it's work, would you excuse me for a moment? It could be important." She smiled and dashed to a quiet corner of the restaurant without waiting for a response.

"Greg!" she whispered desperately into the phone, hunched over with one hand cupped over her mouth conspiratorially. "I'm so glad you called. You need me to come in, right?"

"Hey Sar, no nothing like that, I was just wondering how your date went. Cath said you were seeing some hotel manager."

"You don't need me to come in?" she choked, crestfallen.

"No…" was his startled reply. "What's the matter? Did the date not go so well?"

"It's still _going_," she hissed through gritted teeth, "and if I have to stay here for any longer you're going to have another crime scene to investigate."

"That bad, huh?" he laughed.

"Worse," she sighed. "I'm telling him you needed me in the lab, I have to get out of here. Promise you'll back my story if he asks?"

"Why would he ask? I don't even know him. Besides, I'm not sure I feel comfortable agreeing to lie for you," he answered. She could practically hear him grinning through the phone.

"Greg," she snarled, "so help me God I will _end_ you if--"

"Alright, alright," he submitted. "Why do you have to be so angry?"

"Bye Greg," she smiled, "wish me luck."

"Good luck!" he called into the phone, but she had already hung up. Greg snapped his phone shut, putting his feet up on the glass coffee table of the break room.

"Well, what did she say?" Grissom asked, watching Greg intently to see if his expression gave anything away. Greg shrugged with a smug smile and put his hands behind his head. Grissom rolled his eyes, "Alright, the next case that involves a beheading, more than two victims, or any sort of impaling; you'll be my number two."

"And?" Greg prompted, looking demurely at the ceiling.

"And I'll give Warrick your Friday shift so you can go to that concert you've been blathering about."

"Sweet," Greg grinned, satisfied. He took his feet off the table and sat up straight, looking Grissom in the eye. "She's having a terrible time."

"Really?" Grissom asked, his eyes glued to his protégé.

"Really. She even going to try and use my phone call as an excuse to bail out early. You're still totally in the running."

Grissom frowned at him. "I'm not concerned about being in any sort of 'running' Greg; I just wanted to make sure that she was safe with this guy. As her boss it's my job to ensure her safety."

Greg scoffed, "Yeah, okay. Whatever Griss."

He got up and left with the intention of tracking down Warrick and giving him the bad news that his day off was no longer a day off, leaving Grissom to smile softly to himself in the break room.

Maybe it wasn't too late after all.

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Sara returned to the table, the excuse already formulating in her brain. "Hey Will, sorry about that, it was work."

He stood, smiling, "That's alright, it gave me time to plan an extra little something."

Her face fell in horror. "What kind of 'little something'?"

"There's a fantastic exhibit at the Bellagio Fine Arts Museum, a contemporary art display that's supposed to be amazing, and I just managed to get us into tonight's viewing at the last minute." He winked, "I pulled a few strings."

She fought the urge not to burst into tears. "That's great…"

"I know!" he answered, putting his arm around her jovially.

She wanted desperately to just go home and crawl into bed, but it looked as though that wouldn't be happening any time soon. She didn't have the heart to just shut him down. "But I don't have anything to wear!" she insisted, grasping at straws.

He waved his hand dismissively, "I've taken care of that too."

"You what?"

"Come on," he grinned, pulling her by the wrist. He dropped some money on the table and dragged her across the street to a high-end boutique, one she'd seen a thousand times but had never dreamed of going into. "I think you'd look amazing in black silk, what do you say to that?"

She gaped at her surroundings as they entered, knowing she would never have been able to afford even half of one of the dresses that were displayed like sculptures to be revered. William beckoned to an employee, a blonde that looked like she'd swallowed a lemon as she caught sight of Sara. She came forward and looked at William rather than Sara, knowing which of the two of them had the money.

Will nudged Sara forward into the blonde's arms with a smile. "I need her freshened up in twenty minutes."

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Nineteen minutes later Sara emerged from the dressing room in the most elegant dress that had ever touched her skin. It was black silk, as requested by Will, and he had definitely made the right choice. The dark color made her pale skin glow, accentuating the red in her lips and her glossy brown curls that hung loosely on her shoulders. Her eyes, emphasized by subtle eyeliner and shadow, simply jumped out; the rich amber catching the light perfectly.

The dress clung to her body in all the right spots, dipping down dangerously low to show off her delicious back and neck. Will saw her as she emerged and his jaw slackened in wonder. She was a far cry from the beautiful-yet-disheveled woman that he had seen only a few minutes earlier.

He held out his arm to her and she couldn't help but smile and take it. He may have been annoying, but at least he was trying. Besides, she _had _been meaning to see the exhibit. They walked the block and a half to the Bellagio, where they were ushered in ahead of the crowd. The security held back the velvet rope for them, and Sara laughed to herself as she was reminded that the only thing anyone ever held for her was crime scene tape.

They entered the gallery arm in arm, Sara's eyes sweeping the grand room. "You know, I did a minor in art history at LVU," Will commented.

Sara groaned inwardly, her mind inundated with visions of long-winded modern art interpretations. She did her best not to cringe in dread as they entered the main hall, but the sight that met her eyes was enough to make all thoughts of boring conversation slide out of her mind and shatter on the floor.

Her hand flew to her mouth, "Oh my God…"

"What's wrong?" Will asked, clearly confused at her reaction.

She didn't answer him, reaching into the black handbag she'd been given to get her cell phone. She flipped it open and punched in a string of numbers clumsily, jamming the phone to her ear. She tapped her foot impatiently as the phone continued to ring. "Come on, come on…"

"Grissom."

A wave of relief rushed over her at the sound of his voice. "Grissom! It's me. I need you."

"I'm on my way," was the abrupt reply.

Her heart melted at the fact that he didn't even ask why. She bit her lip and fought the urge to laugh. "You don't know where I am," she said softly.

"Well, where are you?"

"At the Bellagio, in the museum," she answered. "Bring your kit."

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Grissom arrived fifteen minutes later, Brass and Greg hot on his heels.

He entered the main gallery and felt that Sara was somewhere in the room. He knew her presence like he knew the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, and the smell of her skin. It was a part of him.

He spotted her almost immediately, and he knew she sensed he was there too, in a room full of people she managed to turn and lock eyes with him instantly. He was so busy trying to remain standing at the sight of how breath-taking she was that he didn't even hear Greg come up behind him.

"Whoa, is that Sara?"

Grissom ignored him and walked towards her, not taking his eyes off of her for a second. She was beautiful, that fact was never in question, but the way she looked as he wove through the crowd towards her was beyond words. She was a vision, her long, slender arms we bare, and he could see as he got closer the sweet dusting of freckles on her shoulders. She was half turned towards him, a worried look on her face, the soft perfection of her back just barely visible from his angle.

He finally reached her, his breath catching at the tender dimple that formed on her forehead as she fretted about something. Unable to help himself, he put a hand on the irresistible skin of her back, "Sara, are you okay?"

"Yes," she answered in a near-whisper, the distress on her face ebbing a bit at his touch.

"What's the matter?" he asked, searching her face.

"Grissom….you didn't see?" she asked, turning and pointing to something behind her. Grissom looked past her to where she was indicating and felt the blood drain from his face. An enormous painting of a red-headed woman hung behind them. She was draped across a bed, her hair spilling over the edge. Her throat had been cut, and a small pool of blood had collected on the floor, large arches of arterial spray visible on the walls. It was entitled _The Soft Skeleton, _and it was the exact image of both of their crime scenes, down to the last detail.

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Sara felt marginally better now that Grissom had arrived. She had felt that terrible foreboding in her gut the moment she laid eyes on the painting, and it had only gotten worse the longer she stayed in its proximity.

Grissom and Greg were taking photos while Brass inquired as to who had painted it, Will having decided minutes earlier to get out of the way, only leaving once he had gotten her word that they could continue the date another day. A wave of nausea washed over Sara as she stood directly in the artwork's ominous presence, a raw and terrible feeling that started at the base of her neck. She walked towards Grissom, wanting to be close to him, but something made her stop dead in her tracks. In the painting, on the floor next to the bed, a small silver ring stared innocently up at her. A ring with an onyx stone set in it. She stared at the ring, her vision consumed by it. It seemed different than the rest of the painting; it looked almost too real, too life-like, as though someone had reached into the picture and placed it there amongst the paint and canvas.

She moved forward, the ring drawing her, calling to her. She was only a foot from the painting now, and it glinted at her menacingly. Grissom looked up at her as she approached, her face blank, void of all emotion. He called to her but she acted like she didn't hear him.

The truth is, she didn't. All she knew was the ring. She reached her hand out to it, wrapping her fingers around it, the metal cold in her hands. She pulled it out of the painting, and stared at it as it lay benignly in the centre of her palm. Grissom stood and walked to her, her back to him. He took hold of her shoulder and wheeled her around the movement causing her to drop the ring, which flew out of her hand and rolled across the room.

"No!" she called, chasing after it, dodging between stocking legs and shiny black loafers. Grissom ran after her, "Sara!"

She ignored him, chasing the ring that was somehow always just out of reach, always rolling inches from her grasping fingers, until it was lost in the sea of people. She fell to her knees in desperation, her eyes welling up. No one would believe her now. Grissom caught up to her and pulled her to her feet.

"Sara what is the matter with you?!"

"The ring, it was here…" she began weakly.

"What ring? The onyx one? It's in the evidence locker, you know that."

"No, not that one, the one in the painting," she tried to explain, running her fingers through her hair.

"Sara…there was no ring in the painting." Grissom stared at her with blatant concern, his eyes searching her face.

"What are you talking about?" she spat angrily, "I saw it."

"Sara," Grissom handed her his digital camera, showing her the stills of the painting. She scanned the pictures, looking at the spot by the bed where she had seen the ring. It was empty, there was nothing there

_But then it had fallen out, so it wouldn't be there would it?_, she thought to herself. The reality of what she was trying to convince herself of slammed into her. _A ring falling out of a painting?_

"No…" she started. "No that's not possible…" She felt her legs getting weak, her consciousness tumbling down around her. She started to fall, her eyes rolling back into her head. She could hear Grissom calling her from far away, but couldn't find her voice to answer him. The blackness enveloped her, and she fell into a place too dark for rings, or ghosts, or white butterfly hands. A place too dark for even dreams.

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_Thanks again, don't forget to comment pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase!!_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Hey everyone, so sorry about taking forever on this one, I had a serious case of writer's block. All I needed was a few days of surfing to get myself back on track, so here it is! I apologize again for the wait, thanks so much to everyone who has read and commented. – Solomynne_

_Disclaimer: Sadly, not mine._

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_A dark scream will make you swallow your words._

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The world started to return to her; just a bit at a time.

First came sound, far-away and full of static, then the familiar smell of her apartment, and at last the hazy image of her bedroom, and a worried, frowning face. Sara blinked and shifted her position, the rustling of silk telling her she was still in the black gown she had been wearing at the museum. A cool evening breeze hushed in through her window, rustling Grissom's hair gently as he looked down at her.

Her feet were bare; one arm slung above her head, and the now-wrinkled gown had worked its way up her body, exposing her bare thighs. Her make-up had been washed off, the blue evening light kissing her fresh face. A thin, white sheet had become twisted and entwined in her legs, and she could feel Grissom's warm fingers entwined similarly around hers. She looked up at him, and for a moment they regarded each other in the darkness; without words, accusations, or fumbling apologies.

Sara leaned up on her elbow, and Grissom released her hand so she could sit up, curling her legs under her body. Once she was settled, she took his hand again, something he hadn't expected. She was frightened; he could see it in her eyes as she searched for the words she would need to explain herself, words that eluded her like fragments of a dream she couldn't quite recall.

She took in a breath and began to speak in a whisper, her words sounding tight and small. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty pm," he answered quietly, without looking at his watch. He didn't need to; he knew exactly what time it was. He had been checking the time every two minutes since he and Greg had brought her back to her apartment, worrying more with each passing second that her fainting spell was more than just exhaustion like the paramedics had said.

He had carried Sara inside her apartment, Greg running ahead like an eager, over attentive child to undo locks, open doors, and put on coffee. He had left shortly to start comparing the painting to the crime scene photos, leaving Grissom alone with his troubled thoughts, and an even more-troubled Sara.

The last sixteen hours he had done nothing but drink coffee, check on Sara, pretend to sleep, and worry. The way she looked up at him now, looking so fragile and pale, did nothing to ease his unsettled mind.

"Nine thirty?!" she marveled, her eyes widening in disbelief. "How long have I…"

"Nearly seventeen hours now," he answered. He waited for her to say something else, but she didn't, her mind still trying to wrap around everything.

The guilt that had been writhing in his gut, growing with every hour, weighed heavily on him as she lay back against the headboard wearily. It was his turn to search for words now, clearing his throat as he floundered for an apology that would make it right. "Sara…" he trailed off, "I'm sorry for all of this."

She looked at him quickly, her expression becoming pained, "Grissom…"

"No," he continued, "I shouldn't have called you in. You'd just worked a double and then I asked you to come back on no sleep at all, it's no wonder you fainted." He leaned forward in his chair put his other hand on top of hers. "I want you to know it will never happen again; I'm never going to ask you to work so hard that you pass out from sheer exhaustion. I wasn't thinking, Sara," He shook his head gently, "Not about what I should have been."

She sighed; knowing what she had to say was going to be difficult. "This isn't your fault Grissom. I broke my promise to you." She pressed her lips together. "I told you I wouldn't get too involved and I have now." She sat up, and he released her hand. "It's this case, something about this case…I don't know, I think I might be going crazy." Her voice broke on the last words of her sentence, and she laughed softly without knowing why.

"Sara what are you talking about?" he asked in confusion.

"I don't know." She closed her eyes, and rubbed the back of her neck. "I wish I could explain it, but any way I word it I just come off sounding crazy."

Grissom said nothing; though there was much he would have liked to say. But he knew what it was like to be at a loss for words. After all she'd put him in that position more times than he could count.

Sara looked out the window, the light from the stars sinking into her pale flesh. Grissom would have given anything to reach out and touch the soft skin of her face, but before he could give into himself, or not, she began to speak.

"I never used to be a believer," she said quietly. "Not in anything. The afterlife, the human soul, ghosts. As a kid I thought things like that were ideas that people created to make life easier, more meaningful. Like an adult version of Santa Claus." She paused and tucked a loose curl behind her ear before going on, talking not to Grissom but to the open night sky outside her window. "I know that seems like morbid thinking for a nine year old, but growing up in my house," she sighed, "well let's just say things like God seemed pretty far away. Unimaginable even." She remained silent for a second, and Grissom knew she was remembering moments she wished she could forget.

"Working this job, though," she continued, "seeing what we see everyday; you begin to understand what life is all about. You can't help but see God in the little things. You can't help but at least open your mind up to the realm of other possibilities. If you don't," she turned to look at him, "you're just as empty as the dead people we deal with everyday."

"Sara," Grissom pressed gently, "what are you getting at?"

She looked at him resolutely, her jaw set in determination. "Things have been happening to me Grissom. Things I can't explain." She looked away from him, too afraid of what she might see in his face. "I'm not saying that I'm being haunted, I'm not saying that." She ran a hand through her glossy, moon-lit curls.

"So what are you saying?" Grissom asked carefully.

"I don't know," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "I just think I'm being…_affected. _There's something special about this case, about the red-headed girl." She looked at him again, "I think Brass feels it too. I've been having dreams that aren't like dreams at all. They're like," she closed her eyes momentarily, "like memories. And then in the museum, with the ring. I mean I can't even begin trying to rationalize that."

Grissom's face took on a gently perplexed look. "The ring? Do you mean the one we found at the crime scene?"

"No, not that one exactly. Do you remember when I went and touched the painting?"

Grissom's face looked even more confused now. "Sara you never touched the painting. You didn't go near it."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you talking about? I remember distinctly walking up to it, and putting out my hand…"

Grissom shook his head, coming to sit next to her on the bed. "No. Right after Greg and I got there you complained of a headache and went to sit down. You walked towards one of the tables but you fainted before you made it there. You never went near the painting."

A look of confused relief washed over her. "…But I - are you sure? God, it was so real …" she shook her head, "Well never mind," she shrugged, her face becoming a mixture of incredulity and bemusement. "I have officially given up on trying to make sense of anything anymore." She laughed at herself. It seemed like that was all she could really do lately.

Grissom smirked back at her, just happy to see her acting more like Sara again. He knew she had to be deeply affected by something for her to be talking the way she was.

He put his hand on hers, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and looked at her calmly. "Why don't we agree to just take this as it comes. Whatever it is that's affecting you….well maybe we don't need understand it; maybe we don't need to know whether it's just strong feelings on your part, or something more. After all, 'if you're not confused, you're not paying enough attention.' right?"

Sara smiled warmly, "I like that. It certainly works for me." She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for making me feel like less of a crazy person."

He put his other arm around her. "Anytime."

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With seventeen hours of sleep under her belt, no one could argue that Sara wasn't rested enough to get back to work. After a quick breakfast/dinner, Sara and Grissom were headed back to the lab. It was a hot night with zero wind, the air thick and heavy in the investigators' lungs as they entered the crime lab. The relieving breath of every Nevadan's lifeline – air conditioning – rushed over their skin, cooling the sticky sweat that had already begun to trickle down their spines.

Grissom and Sara had barely set foot inside the doors when Brass spotted them, flagging them down from across the hall. "Hey you two!" He walked towards them briskly. "Sara, glad to see you're feeling better. No more of that fainting stuff, okay?" Sara nodded with a smile. Brass understood that they were alike in many ways, one of those ways being that they didn't want to be fawned over in this kind of situation. Another one being they could both be stubborn as hell, but that was another story.

"I got an ID on your Jane Doe," he said, motioning them to follow as he headed down the hall."

"You did?" Sara asked, stopping dead in her tracks as Brass and Grissom continued down the corridor without her. A wave of different emotions flashed through her body, settling on excitement tinged with dread. She had wanted to put a name to the face that had haunted her dreams, to the mysterious woman that had some sort of hold on her. But she also had this odd feeling that once she knew the woman's name, she would be in it for good, as though by learning the red-head's identity she would be sealing some kind of pact. After a moment Sara trotted a few steps to fall back in line with the two men. Brass was explaining to Grissom how they had managed to track her name.

"…So after I talked to a few other people I figured out that the first victim is actually the artist who painted _The Soft Skeleton_. And the second victim is a friend of hers, also a painter who has work in the Bellagio exhibit. Imagine," the detective clucked his tongue remorsefully, "this girl was painting the scene of her own death without even realizing it."

The sober thought washed over the three of them as they walked through the glass maze of the lab, silencing them until Sara asked tentatively, "What's her name? The first victim?"

Brass turned to look at her over his shoulder, "Her name is Shade Wilson. Her friend, the second victim, her name's Marion Daniels. Marion's been here a few years but Shade's just here for the exhibit. Or _was_, I should say."

"Have you notified their families?" Grissom asked.

"Not yet, that's what I'm going to do now," Brass answered grimly.

Sara and Grissom each gave him a quiet nod and watched him walk away. They knew what he was about to do was the hardest part about their job. To give someone the worst news they will quite possibly ever receive in their life is both a great difficulty and a strange honor. You know that the people you are about to devastate will never, ever forget you. At different times in their life they will think back to your conversation and recall the sound of your voice, of your hesitant breaths into the phone. Your name will pop into their heads at the strangest moments, floating like a ghost through their minds.

Sara wondered how many people thought of her as a proverbial Angel of Death. She came to the conclusion that it was probably quite a few, and then realized that didn't bother her at all.

"Well," Grissom interrupted her thoughts, "while he's talking to the victims' families, I suggest we start talking to the victims." Sara raised an eyebrow at him and he smiled, "I got Marion's address from Brass, it turns out that's where Shade was staying while she was in town. Let's go see what we can find out about these girls."

"Sounds great, I'll drive," Greg commented, appearing from around the corner where he had evidently been eavesdropping.

"Good," Grissom responded without missing a beat. "Start up your Denali and we'll meet you in the parking lot."

Greg, who had been prepared with a speech as to why he should be able to tag along, froze for a second, processed Grissom's response, then promptly turned on his heel and jogged down the hall before his boss had a chance to change his mind.

Sara glanced suspiciously at Grissom, "What was that about?"

Grissom put a hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the hall. "I owe him a favor."

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They arrived at Marion Daniel's apartment twenty minutes later.

Sara felt a slight pinch of guilt upon entering the young woman's home. She had been so caught up with the first victim; Shade, that she had barely spared a second thought to poor Marion. Now, as she entered the dark, quiet living room, the second murder victim was finally making herself heard.

The apartment was beautifully decorated, warm and inviting. Sara immediately decided that she liked Marion Daniels. Her clothes were strewn about the place, the contents of a make-up bag dumped on the coffee table; evidently Marion had been in a hurry the last time she left her apartment.

Greg and Grissom stepped in behind her and the three went to work looking searching the place for anything probative. Grissom began in the living room, sifting through mail that had been tossed carelessly on the coffee table.

Sara wandered into the kitchen, picking up a half empty coffee mug that sat beside the sink, along with a few other dirty dishes. Greg noticed her looking over the contents of the sink, the mug still in her hand. "Find something?" he asked as he walked towards her.

"Hm?" she asked, snapping out of her reverie. "Oh; no, not really."

Greg eyed her curiously. "What were you thinking about?"

She sighed, swiping a lock of air behind her ear with a gloved hand. "I was just thinking about how much we all take for granted." She waved a hand towards the sink. "Marion put these dishes in the sink, and just _assumed _she would be alive to do them later. You throw your clothes in the dryer and _assume_ that you'll still be alive to wear them once they've dried. We go grocery shopping, buying food for a dinner we just _assume_ we'll be alive to prepare." Sara sighed again and set the mug down. "This job makes you realize how precious every second is. Either of us could die at any moment, for any number of reasons. We don't normally allow ourselves to think about the fact that it could all end in an instant. I mean, how much time do we have? Nobody knows."

Sara shook her head and went to look through the fridge. She pushed aside some dated milk, rifling around for she knew not what. Greg meanwhile was still staring at the mug of coffee as though it had just burst into flames. After a moment he dazedly turned on his heel and walked back into the living room. He approached Grissom, who was going through the couch cushions. "Remind me never to ask Sara what she's thinking from now on," he said with a shudder.

"She can be a little morbid at times," Grissom answered.

"But that's why you love her, right?" Greg added casually as he helped Grissom replace the cushions. Grissom ignored him; only a long, tight-lipped glance showing that he had heard.

"Hey guys?"

Grissom and Greg glanced up, Sara standing in the doorway. "I'm going to start on the bedroom." Both men nodded as she walked away, their faces red, and ghostly white; respectively.

A small smile spread its way across Sara's face as she walked down the hall. She could feel their eyes on her back, wondering if she'd heard; which, of course, she had.

She walked into Marion's small bedroom; flicking on the light with an elbow. Nothing especially caught her eye, so she started with the dresser – her favorite. Dressers always had the strangest things in them. Loose change, receipts, sex toys, love letters, fruit, concert tickets; you just never knew what you were going to get. Marion, unfortunately, only used her dresser to store clothing, which was as rare as it was uninteresting. Sara closed the drawers and turned slowly, noticing immediately that something was different about the room.

It only took her a moment to realize what it was. She was a CSI, it was her job to notice things, and she was 100 positive that the closet had been closed when she had walked in the room. Or…at least she was _pretty _sure she was positive. Heart rate climbing, Sara cautiously walked towards the now wide-open door and sliced through the darkness with her Maglite. She swept her flashlight from top to bottom, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Taking a breath, Sara stepped a little further into the closet, but not far enough in that the door would be able to close behind her.

At a closer glance she saw a red duffel bag resting innocently on the closet floor. She knew without a second thought that it belonged to Shade; Grissom had told her, after all, that this is where Shade had been staying. Sara knelt down and scooped up the bag, stepping out of the closet and setting it on the bed.

Carefully, methodically, she pulled out the bag's contents one at a time. Underneath the layers of clothes, tucked in a corner pocket, was a small business card. It read in cramped block letters, "_Shady Lane Art Studio, 852 Tropicana_."

Sara knew in a heartbeat this was what they had come there for. "Grissom!" she called. "Will you come here for a second?" She stared at the card as she heard Grissom's footsteps approaching, turning as he appeared in the doorway.

"Look at this," she said in a hushed, excited voice. She handed him the card, his face remaining expressionless as he read it. She stepped closer to him, so they were only inches apart, and said in a quiet, conspiratorial tone, "I think we're supposed to go there."

"_Supposed _to?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sara took the card back, "You know what I mean," she whispered intensely. "The first victim's name was Shade! Shade, Shady Lane….this is her studio." She jabbed a finger at the card. "I don't think there's anything for us here. This is where we need to be." She took the card and held it up to him. "I can feel it Griss." He sighed defeatedly, and her face broke into a smile.

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Once the trio finished searching the apartment, they headed down to Tropicana to check out the art studio. A bell jingled merrily above Sara's head as she opened the door. She glanced at it as she entered; they didn't get many of those in Vegas. A small, balding man at a desk stood up as the three walked inside. "Hello, I'm Marty, may I help you?" he asked politely.

"Maybe," Sara began as she approached the desk, her footsteps sounding loud on the hardwood floor. "Can you tell me; is this the Studio of Shade Wilson?"

"It is indeed," he answered in a friendly voice, gesturing to the paintings on the walls. "She just opened a few weeks ago, these are all original pieces that range in price from-" "Sir," Grissom held up a hand as he came up behind Sara. "We're not patrons. We've come, unfortunately, for a much less positive reason."

Marty's mouth drew into a small frown "What seems to be the problem?"

Sara put her hands flat on his desk. "When was the lat time you saw Shade?"

Marty looked at his hands, unwittingly trying to recall the last time he would ever see Shade alive. "It must have been about two or three days ago." He shook his head, "Which is actually strange because this place is her baby, she's usually in every day. I called her this morning to see if she was feeling okay but she didn't answer her phone."

"Well, that's not surprising," Grissom answered, "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Ms. Wilson was murdered two nights ago."

Greg, who had begun admiring the paintings on the walls, turned to gauge the man's reaction to the news. It wasn't often that he was around to witness these kinds of things. He observed carefully as all the blood ran out of the small man's face; a true feat considering how pale he was to begin with.

"What?" Marty said in a feeble voice, sinking down in his seat.

"How long have you known Shade for?" Sara asked gently.

"Well, let's see," he said absently, running a hand along the smooth skin of his head. "Not long, I suppose about two months now. But she was such a sweet girl," he looked up at the CSIs, dumbfounded, "who would want to hurt her?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Grissom explained.

"Of course," was the half-whispered reply.

"Marty," Sara said softly, "do you keep records of everyone who purchases Shade's artwork?"

"Yes," Marty answered, still in complete shell-shock. "We have a patron list somewhere; I'll get it for you." He walked away in a daze, leaving Sara and Grissom to walk the room, examining Shade's art. Sara, impatient to get the patron list, barely glanced at the paintings as she paced along the wall. She was walking past a particularly large painting when someone stuck a foot out in front of her, sending her slamming into the wall beside her with a yelp, after which she crumpled to the floor in a heap.

"Ow! Jesus!" she looked up from the floor to see Greg standing above her.

"Shit, are you okay?!" he asked, offering her a hand. "You went down hard there."

"What the hell did you do that for?!" Sara snapped, ignoring his hand and getting to her feet.

Greg looked completely dumbfounded. "Do what? Try to help you?"

"You tripped me!" Sara accused,

"Why the hell would I trip you Sara?" he asked incredulously.

"Sara, Greg was standing over here when you fell," Grissom said, coming to stand next to her.

"Well then _who _could have…?" Sara trailed off; turning to the painting she was standing beside. "Greg, go get the ALS."

"What?" Greg asked, looking at the wall where her gaze was fixated.

"Please!" Sara said, whipping around to look at him. He rolled his eyes and jogged out of the room, heading for the truck.

"What are you thinking?" Grissom asked.

"Somebody tripped me Grissom," was the only explanation she offered. He looked at her; saw the fear and excitement in her eyes. Letting out a breath, he reached over, his fingers snaking underneath her soft curls, and put his hand comfortingly on the back of her neck. His touch settled her clanging nerves, and sent a warm shiver down her spine. The two of them stood there together in silence until Greg returned with the equipment. Sara wasted no time donning her orange glasses and shining the blue light on the walls, sweeping across the painting delicately.

Greg and Grissom watched as her face changed, seeing some horror that was still invisible to them. "Greg," she breathed, "hand me the phenolphthalein."

Greg passed her the spray bottle and she began squirting it on the walls, across the painting, down the floor. "Hey!" Marty shouted as he came from the back office, "What the hell do you think you're…" his angry words fell dead on his tongue as large blue streaks of washed-away blood began to appear across the walls. The arterial spray arced in brilliant spurts above the painting, a macabre piece of art in itself.

Sara finished, dropping the bottle of phenolphthalein as she stepped back to take in the grisly scene before her. The blood dripped menacingly down the walls, trailed across the painting, dribbling over the golden frame, and trickled sadly to the floor. Sara's heart tore in two as she noticed near the floor a single, desperate handprint.

The amount of blood suggested the possibility of two people, two victims.

Shade and Marion.

"Well," Greg spoke in the silence, "I think we found our crime scene."

Sara nodded, turning from the scene before her to get her kit from the car. As she walked away she whispered to herself, or anyone that may have been listening,

"_Thanks Shade."_

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_Sorry again about the wait! Let me know what you think!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Hey everyone! Look who's back, six months later! Sorry about the delay, I had a massive case of writer's block. But a surf trip to Central America has set things right, so here it is! I hope you like it, and again…sorry. I love you._

_Solomynne._

_Disclaimer: With the writer's strike, what else am I supposed to do with my time? Not mine, blah de blah._

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"Sara?"

"Mm?"

"Are you sleeping?"

"…No."

"Liar."

Greg's muffled voice pulled Sara out of a thick sleep, lifting her head groggily to see him peering at her through the passenger side window. It was starting to get light out; the sky spewing forth fiery pink streaks that threatened something intangibly dangerous as they glowed brilliantly.

_Pink sky in morning, sailors take warning, _Sara thought to herself.

Greg was silhouetted against this extravagant display, with no idea of the beauty that hovered just behind his narrow shoulders. Sara sat up and opened her door, Greg stepping back; knowing better than to offer her a hand.

She had only come to the car to get her spare memory chip for her camera, but after first searching Marion's apartment, and then spending countless hours at the crime scene in the art studio, her eyelids had become heavy upon the minute she had sat down. She presently brushed past Greg, clearing her throat as she headed across the parking lot, her footsteps sounding loud to her on the pavement. "I was just resting my eyes for a moment," she responded curtly, shutting Greg down before he tried to tease her. He smiled softly to himself as she brusquely changed the subject. "Did you find anything while I was gone?"

"No," he answered frankly. Her mouth stretched into a thin, grim line; her disappointment obvious. They had found little at the scene. Brass was tracking down all of Shade's clients, and they were looking into the video footage of the convenience store across the street, but other than that they had little to go on.

"You were only gone about fifteen minutes, Sara," Greg reminded her gently.

"It only takes a second to find that one thing you're looking for," she said softly, as if to herself.

"And what are you looking for?" he asked. She continued to look at her feet as they neared the studio entrance. Her dark curls fell across her eyes, head hung in thought. Greg watched her as she watched the movements of her own shoes, listened to their continuous rhythm.

"An answer," she whispered.

He looked away from her then, without knowing the exact reason for his unease.

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"There you are."

Sara and Greg entered the art studio to Grissom's nettled greeting. The dark, dramatic lighting was ideal for showcasing the works of art on the walls, but made it frustrating to try and find anything that would, even in the best light, be difficult to see with the naked eye. "I thought I might have to finish working the scene on my own," he chided, turning away from them to snap a shot of the ground.

Sara sighed and bit her tongue, quelling the smart-ass reproach that had already begun to formulate in her mind. The last thing she needed was to be at odds with Grissom. Still feeling a little groggy, Sara decided to walk the room a bit and clear her head before resuming her work. She didn't want to risk missing something important because she wasn't running at peak efficiency. She stretched her arms out in front of her, curling her back, and wandered over to a wall far from the crime scene, and Grissom's scrutiny.

She ran her eyes along the paintings on the walls, really taking them in for the first time. They were beautiful; it was obvious Shade had had an enormous talent within her. It was Sara's opinion that for an artist to create compelling work, they not only had to have talent, but also the capacity for great, and deep, emotion. That's what art really was to her; a solid form of the artist's feelings. A painting of a landscape isn't really hills and mountains and trees, it's the essence of the way those things made the artist feel when they looked at them.

And looking at Shade's art, Sara could see plainly that Shade had been capable of incredible depths of emotion. She stopped in front of a large painting with a golden frame, her eyes flitting from one spot to the next. It depicted a woman in a field draped serenely across a grandfather clock, her pale, glowing skin wrapped only in a winding, white sheet.

An open night sky poured its light down upon her, the luminescence so real Sara could almost feel the cool light of the moon and stars glowing on her own face. The woman's hair, trailing over the edge of the aged oak of the clock, hushed along the ground. In one hand, she held a reaper's scythe, its steel blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight. In the other hand was a human heart, held gently in her hand as one would hold a bird. Her face was calm; brown, almond shaped eyes gazing up into the abyss of the night sky.

It was labeled "_The Balance_".

"She looks like you."

Sara jumped, startled, and wheeled around to see Marty standing just behind her. He seemed completely nonplussed at having scared the living hell out of her; his eyes not leaving the painting. "Don't you think so?" he asked for her conformation.

Sara turned back the painting in annoyance, a hand over her hammering heart, and focused on the woman's face. "I don't know, maybe a little. We have the same hair, at least," she conceded.

"I'd say you share more similarities than your hair color," he argued. "But what does an old man like me know about anything," he jested. All the while his eyes remained on the painting. "I spend my whole day looking at these," he said softly. "Even though I only knew Shade for a few weeks, I felt close with her. It was like just being around these pieces of her art, the more familiar I became with them, the more I felt like I knew her too."

Sara nodded, saying nothing. She always became suspicious of people who so easily slipped into the past tense after someone they knew passed away. Most people would speak as though their loved one was still alive, so in situations where they didn't make this somber error it made her feel as though perhaps they had already been thinking of them as deceased for quite some time.

She made a mental note to mention this small fact to Grissom, glancing over her shoulder at Marty uneasily. He continued to focus his attention on the painting that hung before him, but he was looking past it, through it, to something else entirely. He abruptly shook his head, as though chasing away unwanted thoughts. Sighing, he remarked, "Well unless I can be of any further assistance to you, I'd really like to go home to my wife. I can leave you the keys to the studio if you like. Shade gave me her old set so I could lock up between shifts."

Sara nodded, "That would be great, thank you." Marty dug into his pockets, fishing out a ring of keys. He held them up, jingling, the butter-yellow light from the ceilings bouncing off the silver and winking at Sara. She accepted them slowly, as though she were hesitant to touch them, knowing to whom they had belonged. She closed her fingers around them, feeling the cold metal on her fingers. "Thank you," she repeated.

She watched him walk away, his shoulders hunched slightly, then turned back to the painting, allowing herself to really look at it, now that she was alone. She had to admit, the woman _did _look an awful lot like her. Deciding she'd had enough of the paranormal for one day, tore her eyes from the painting and headed for Grissom. He was facing the wall, but he turned as she approached, as though he had sensed her coming. "I'm not sure I trust that man," she confided.

"Who, Marty?" he asked. She nodded grimly. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure yet," she mused, lines forming on her face as she tried to find words for an unnamable feeling, like trying to staple water to a wall. She looked past him to the blood patterns radiating behind him like an obscene sunrise. "Find anything?"

He shook his head, his expression showing signs of defeat, though he would never have admitted it. "I'm going to send Greg back to the lab to help Brass get addresses on her client list. For now, it's really all we have. That and the paintbrush bristles. They appear to be high-end, according to trace. Not from a run-of-the-mill paintbrush."

"You think they're from her own collection?" Sara thought out loud, her eyebrows raised.

Grissom paused, raising a finger in the air characteristically. "Let's find out." He brushed his fingertips along her back in a personal gesture, guiding her out of the main gallery and down a darkened corridor, the arms of darkness enveloping them.

Sara immediately felt a stab of unease slice through her stomach, and she involuntarily took a step closer to Grissom, the warmth from his body giving her comfort.

As they made their way down the corridor, a small red light could be seen in the corner of the ceiling, blinking like the eye of a demon. Sara put a hand on Grissom's shoulder, stopping him. "Is that a security camera?"

He followed the direction of her gaze. "Yes. I believe it is."

"Did you see any in the main gallery?" she asked, turning to him in the darkness; the red light reflecting off his glasses.

"No, but they can be pretty well hidden. Then again," he looked to her with a wary eye, "I asked Marty if they had security cameras and he said no, so I wasn't exactly looking for them."

"He lied to us," she hissed, a note of triumph ringing clear through the anger in her words. "I knew something was off about him."

The tiniest twitch of a smile pulled at the corner of Grissom's mouth, smiling at her victory, and then was gone. "Let's not jump to any conclusions, Sara. I'll tell Greg to check it out, until then; let's give old Marty the benefit of the doubt." He turned on his heel and headed back to the gallery, his gentle orders to Greg echoing back to her as she stood alone in the dark. She heard the sound of his approaching footsteps, and he fell in line with her as she turned and started back towards the studio. They passed a small, darkened office that was lit only by the cold, robotic blue of a computer screen, and came to the end of the hallway. A small set of plain-looking double doors faced them innocently; the single thought that ran through Sara's mind was that behind them laid the room where Shade had created all her works of art; where she had put the finishing touches on "_The Soft Skeleton_", without ever knowing the dark outcome the piece of artwork would put into motion. Sara drew in a deep breath, refusing to show any further signs of weakness to Grissom. She feared he was well on his way to thinking she was some fragile woman who would shatter like glass at the tiniest vibration.

She reached out to the door, seeing her action stretched and distorted, reflected back at her in the dull shine of the doorknob. She entered the room cautiously, grateful to know that Grissom was behind her. An artist's panting easel was stark against the early morning light pouring in a window off to the right. There were sketches and canvases strewn about the room, pencils and charcoal littered the floor. "This room is a disaster," Sara commented in surprise, walking to the centre of the room and looking about her.

"Artists have never exactly been known to be the organized type," Grissom answered, picking up a sketch with his white-gloved hands. "But," he continued, placing the sketch on a small drawing table, "there is one thing that all artists treat with delicate care and respect."

"What's that?" she mused, flipping though a book of notes written in a spidery, feminine script.

"Their brushes," Grissom answered. He walked up to her, and put his arm out, leaning towards her. Sara thought for a fleeting moment that he was going in for a hug, his chest brushing up against her body, his breath warm on her ear. She realized just in time that he was reaching past her to the windowsill, he met her eyes briefly with a smile that told her he had known what she was thinking, and then held up what he had been after: a brush roll.

While she tried to quiet her ragged breathing; he placed the brushes on the drawing table and undid the leather strap, giving the roll a push with his hand so that it could unfurl itself. A beautiful set of wooden-handled brushes rolled across the table, ranging from the length of a forearm to the length of a pinky. Sara ran her eyes along the polished mahogany brushes, stopping on an empty slot in the centre of the roll.

"There's one missing," she stated, looking up at Grissom. "That could just mean that she's lost it, or maybe it's even somewhere in this mess," she ventured, waving her arm across the disheveled room.

"Unlikely," Grissom said with a small shake of his head, "like I said, artists generally take care of their tools, and with a set of paintbrushes as beautiful as these, it's probable that these were Shade's most prized possessions."

Sara nodded, knowing his points were valid. "Let's get these back to the lab, maybe we can get some prints off them." She carefully rolled the brushed back up, tying the leather strap. "Why don't we do a once-over of the--" she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on a spot just past Grissom's shoulder.

The mixture of confusion and fear on her face was enough to make Grissom spin on his heel, just in time to see the door to the studio slamming shut behind them, punctuated by the sound of the lock driving home on the other side of the door. They both rushed to it instinctually, Grissom wrenching on the handle even though he knew it was in vain. Sara had her ear to the door, lips parted and eyes wide, trying desperately to hear even a hint of what was going on outside the door.

She could hear the muffled sound of drawers being opened and slammed shut, papers shuffling, objects strewn about. "It sounds like someone's in the office across the hall," she whispered to Grissom. She placed her ear back to the door, both palms flat on the smooth wood. Grissom watched her face as she listened, saw it change quickly from one of anxious curiosity to dark fear. She heard someone calling her name from down the hall, a voice she knew very well. "Greg!" she hissed to Grissom.

His eyes shot to the door, as though if he looked hard enough he would be able to see right through it. "Greg!" he called, "Greg, run!"

They stared at each other in horror, their bodies pressed against the door, simultaneously dreading and hoping for something to break the stretching silence. They heard a loud crash, and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor. "GREG!" Sara bellowed. Grissom stepped forward and threw his entire body weight against the door, trying to blow the lock, but the thick door barely budged. He tried a few more times, but Sara could see it wasn't going to be opened without a key- or an axe. In a last desperate attempt she began hammering her fists on the door, shouting, "You son of a bitch I swear to everything that is holy if you laid a hand on him I will END you!" She beat her palms against the wood, trying to smash through it in a rage, her hands flying so hard against the door that she didn't even notice the stinging pain. She began to wrench fruitlessly on the handle, thinking that just maybe she could rip it right off. She held her breath, gritting her teeth in the effort, until she felt Grissom's arms envelop her from behind, pulling her away.

"Sara you're going to hurt yourself!" he yelled, whipping her around to face him and shaking her shoulders.

"I don't care!" she spat.

"I know," Grissom answered just as fiercely, "but I do." He moved her aside and stood in front of the door, his eyes scanning it thoughtfully.

"What are you doing?" Sara breathed, still panting from her outburst.

"Thinking rationally," he answered. "You should try it some time." Before Sara had a chance to shoot back a scathing retort, Grissom stepped forward and used his pocketknife to pop the bolts out of the door hinges, and with a simple movement, pulled the door open.

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Help arrived less than fifteen minutes later, Sara and Grissom kneeling on the floor beside an unconscious Greg. He had a deep gash on the side of his head, a thick ribbon of blood tracing a line down the side of his face. The paramedics lifted Greg onto a stretcher, his limp body flopping lifelessly. Sara stood and followed the EMTs outside, where the sky had become a grumbling pale grey that mirrored her frame of mind. Grissom came to stand beside her as Greg was loaded into the ambulance, the doors of the rig slamming shut with a finality that echoed in their hearts.

The sky opened up as the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, fat drops of rain landing on the heads and shoulders of the two silent criminalists that stood left behind. Sara turned to Grissom; he couldn't see the tears through the rain that landed on her face, but he knew they were there. He took her hand as they watched the lights of the ambulance flash through the sheet of rain, the pulses of red a beating heart that sliced through the gloom.

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Sara woke abruptly to the sound of a loudspeaker droning relentlessly close to her head. As she rubbed her eyes groggily she became aware of other sounds; a ringing phone, hushed voices, muffled coughing: the sounds of a hospital. She lifted her head off Grissom's shoulder where it had fallen; he turned to look at her. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I fell asleep in a hospital chair," she answered, her smile tacked crookedly on her face.

"Well I'm glad one of us got some rest, at least. You can sleep anywhere."

"It's a talent I have," she smirked. "How's Greg, better?"

"Doctors say he'll have a headache for a day or so, but no permanent damage. They stitched him up and sent him on his way."

Sara, who had been stretching out her aching muscles snapped her head towards Grissom with a confused look on her face. "They sent him_where?_"

"Home."

"He's gone," she confirmed, incredulous.

"Mm-hmm," was the only response she was granted.

Sara looked around her, as though she may call a nurse over to do a psyche evaluation, and then said slowly, "So…why are _we_ here?"

"You fell asleep." Grissom's face showed no signs of mockery.

"So why didn't you wake me up?"

"You needed the rest. Besides you're a little scary when you get woken up." He stood, reaching a hand out to her, a gesture she ignored as she stared up at him with a slightly astonished look on her face.

"I'm scary?" He nodded, dropping his hand and walking away, knowing she would follow. She stood and jogged after him, "I am not scary!"

"I didn't mean _The Exorcist _scary, I'm just a little weary of you when you've just been woken."

She glared at him, hiding a grin as he held the door to the stairwell open for her, but his phone chirruped, interrupting their impromptu battle of wills. "Grissom," he answered. Sara watched his features darken, and shifted where she stood, impatient to know what was happening. Grissom flipped his phone shut and took her by the wrist, moving her out the door.

"We have to go."

"Who was that?"

"Brass."

"What did he say?"

"We have to go."

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They arrived at the lab in under ten minutes, Grissom refusing to elaborate, and Sara becoming more and more worked up because of it. The two of them blew through the front doors and headed straight for the lay out room, where they knew Brass would already be waiting. All Grissom had told Sara was that a package had arrived for them, and as they entered the room they could see it, wrapped in paper on the back-lit glass table. It was flat, tied with white string, addressed to both of them by name. They looked at each other grimly, Sara pulling a box of gloves out of a drawer as Grissom took out his pocket knife and carefully cut the string. They both donned the latex gloves, each taking a side of the innocuous brown paper and pulling it away. As they ripped through the paper, the white light from the table casting their features into angular blocks of light and shadow, a black seed of fear began to grow in both of their guts. The paper fell away, and the two of them stepped back in awe as _"The Balance"_, the painting Sara and Marty had looked at earlier now sat before them.

"Oh my…" Sara put her hand over her mouth and took a step back, unable to even finish her sentence, the horror piercing her heart too great.

"What's the big deal, it's a painting," Brass grunted.

"It's one of Shade's paintings," Grissom answered, his eyes on Sara. "It must have been taken from the gallery since we were there last. Although there's no point in trying to pull any security tapes because, as we know, somebody else pulled them first…nearly killing Greg in the process."

"So why send it to you guys, what's it mean?"

"Look again Brass. It's been given an…alteration." Grissom gestured to the image of the woman lying across the grandfather clock. At first glance all was the same; her scythe glinting menacingly, the human heart nestled softly in her hand, her white dress flowing. But after a closer inspection, it was clear that the woman's throat had been painted over with a thin trickle of red, as though it had been slit; much like the throats of Shade and Marion. Near the top of the painting, the macabre artist had played connect-the-dots with the starry night sky, spelling out the words "you're next" in a spidery script.

"Oh," Brass croaked in a small voice. "Well, 'you're next', that could be directed at either of you. I mean look, it has both your names on it." He pointed at the wrapping, their names written in black, block letters.

"No, Brass. I think whoever made the adjustments to this painting had a specific person in mind."

"You?" asked Brass.

"Guess again."

They both looked at Sara, who lifted her eyes from the painting to meet theirs. Her face pale, she sighed and looked at the ceiling. _"Shit."_

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Thank you so much for reading! Please review I adore it so.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Hey everybody! Yes I finally updated, hope that you like it! It ended up being so long I had to split it into two, oh dear. Enjoy my lovelies. – Solomynne.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I know this, you know this, let us all move on.

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_Neon shines on smoky eyes tonight._

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She opened the door on an impulse, the way she does most things.

Despite the death threat looming over her head like a storm cloud, Sara still didn't feel as though she were in any danger. She couldn't make it real for herself, which is probably why she felt she could afford to be careless, opening the door without even looking to see who had been knocking. Luckily for her it wasn't anyone out to kill her. Unluckily for her, it _was_ someone trying to get her to make good on a promise that she'd never had any intentions of fulfilling.

William Tresemer stood at her doorway looking like an exquisite sculpture, immaculately dressed with a well-practiced grin adorning his face; just the right combination of rugged masculinity and boyish charm. Surprisingly though, his chiseled jaw line and rock-solid biceps, which at one time would have been enough to make Sara clammy with lust, now just made her irritated. After interacting with him on their disaster of a date, and especially after the day she'd had, she was in no mood to deal with his egocentric antics, or to be swept off her feet. Now that the infatuation was over, she could see that his good looks were too practiced, too perfect. Besides, she wasn't the type of woman who dated men that spent a longer time getting ready for their day than she did, and it was clear that it took a lot of preening to maintain the kind of image Will portrayed.

She rested her head tiredly on the door. "Hi, Will."

"Sara," he smiled, "may I come in?"

Despite a strong urge to just close the door on him and walk away, she stepped aside so he could enter, and closed the door _behind_ him instead. He sat on the couch, Sara refusing to offer him anything to drink lest he take that as any kind of encouragement to stay.

"Well, Sara," he laughed, "I haven't heard from you since you turned our last date into a crime scene. How did that go?"

"It went…alright," she answered cryptically, sitting on a chair facing him. He waited expectantly as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, clasping her hands on her lap tightly.

It was clear Will was disappointed that she wouldn't share anything else with him, but he didn't press the subject. He shook his head, brushing it off. "Well, anyway, I stopped by tonight to see if you would be free this evening. I thought we might finish our date, perhaps this time without needing to call the cops. Or your boss." It was clear he meant to say the last part of his sentence jokingly, but there was a surprising amount of bitterness tingeing his words; apparently Grissom's feelings towards Will were mutual.

Sara froze for a moment, unaccustomed as she was to lying, and lamely pulled out the line, "I'm sorry, I have to work tonight. Maybe some other time?" Will's smile faded, his head dropping slightly.

"Well, is there any way you can trade your shift with anyone?" He asked, reaching out to take one of her hands. "I'd really like to get to know you better."

Her annoyance now piqued, she felt much less inclined to spare his feelings. He'd invaded her peace and quiet long enough. She quickly replied, "I'm sorry, there's no one else to take it. Like I said, maybe some other time." She stood, hoping that he would get the message; but it seemed Will wasn't up to date on his body language. He sat there, looking up at her blankly.

"…I'll call you," she prompted. Anything to get this guy out of her house; anything to avoid having to hear another monologue about his wildly exciting life as part owner of a chain of low quality motels.

He stood slowly, "Alright then," he said quietly. "Why don't you give me a call when you get off, we can go for coffee."

Sara nearly laughed at his relentlessness. "Yeah, maybe," she sighed.

He walked to the door and she let him out, closing the door quickly behind him. Sara turned to face her empty apartment, relishing in the moment of being alone again. She'd been wanting a moment to herself, to process everything that had happened over the last few days; but it turned out getting a second of solitude was harder than she'd thought. Brass and Grissom wouldn't hear of her just going home after being threatened the way she was, and it was only after she agreed to a cop car parked outside her apartment building that they'd let her leave.

She walked to her couch and stretched out on her back, staring out the window as the sun warmed her skin. The silence pressed on her ears, and it felt good. Sara felt her eyes closing, her body relaxing, but just as she was about to drift off a knock at the door made her start awake. She groaned, the annoyance in her voice clear, "Will, I told you I'd call you okay? I --"

"Sara, it's me." Grissom's soft voice penetrated the door.

"Oh," She answered quietly, sitting up on her elbows. "Come in."

The handle twisted and he walked in, seeing her stretched languidly on her couch, the sun hitting her skin, illuminating her. He cleared his throat nervously, body temperature rising at the very sight of her. "Someone threatens to slit your throat, and you don't even bother to lock your door?"

She smirked and sat up on the couch so he could join her. He made eye contact with her to emphasize his point as he locked the door, then cracked a small smile and came to sit beside her. She smelled like something feminine and earthy, the "Sidle scent" but amplified. The sunlight made her brown eyes glow as she looked at him, curled on the couch. "Are you checking up on me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"No, not at all," he answered innocently, leaning back on the couch a little. "I just came to see how you were doing."

"I'm pretty sure that could be classified as 'checking up'," she laughed. It was nice to hear her laugh for a change. She sighed and rested her head on the heel of her hand, closing her eyes to the warm sun. "Did you find out anything new about the case?" she asked, her eyes still closed.

He counted her freckles as he absently answered, "No, not yet. But try to take your mind off it, would you? I really want you to take a break from it all. In fact, why don't I leave you to do just that," he said, moving to rise. She didn't want him to leave, and she knew that he didn't want to either.

"You don't have to go," she said quietly, putting her hand on his. Her eyes were open now, warm and inviting. He hesitated, then sat back down, watching as her eyes closed again.

After several moments of quiet he spoke. "When I knocked you thought I was William Tresemer, correct? How are things between the two of you?" His question hung awkwardly between them, and he felt foolish for saying it. He just wanted to hear from her that there was nothing between them. God, how did she make him so irrational?

He silently berated himself until she interrupted, eyes still closed, "He's not someone I'm interested in seeing anymore, as you know damn well from your insider, Greg."

He felt the heat rush to his cheeks. _She knew about that? _He was going to kill Greg. Before he could fumble for an explanation, a smile broke out on her face, her eyes opening again.

Despite feeling like a complete ass, he felt his face break into a smile too. She shifted closer to him and curled her fingers around his, closing her eyes again. He watched as her breathing became slower, more even, her facial muscles relaxing. She cuddled up close to him and he pulled a blanket over her, settling in beside her in the delicious silence of her living room. He watched her for some time, her face becoming the canvas for the setting sun to splash with pink, purple, deep orange.

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She woke to an empty room.

It had grown cold, and dark; the only light coming from the pale moon shining through her window. Sara pulled the blanket around her shoulders and shifted her position, looking out the window to see the lights of Vegas twinkling back at her. Something about watching the city at night made her heart feel so tight in her chest; it was almost hard to breathe. She opened the window a crack to get some fresh air, the chilly night wind biting at her, making her eyes sting. She sat there in the dark of the moonlight, letting the wind play with her hair, letting the chill numb her face, until a serene stillness came over her.

It was the saddest stillness her heart had ever known.

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She didn't know how long she had been staring out her window when a knock came at her door. Sara rose, letting her blanket fall to the floor, pooling at her ankles. The knock came a second time, more impatient. Surely a murderer wouldn't come hunting her at this hour? She used the yellow beam of light streaming through the peephole as a guide, approaching the door and resting her forehead on the cool wood as she checked to see who it was. Grissom's profile appeared in her small field of vision, causing her heart rate to climb still higher as what had previously been only nervousness now turned to a thousand butterflies in her stomach.

She opened the door, the light from the hall making her squint. She looked delectable with her rumpled hair and confused expression, dark eyes questioning. "Grissom," she said softly. He never understood how she could say so much by just saying his name.

"Sara," he said softly, lifting his chin. "I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye."  
"It's alright," she answered quickly.

"Oh," he stumbled. "Well, it's just that Brass called, and I didn't want to wake you if it turned out to be nothing."

"And was it?"

"Was what?"

"Was it nothing."

"I'm afraid it wasn't," he answered. "Why don't you get dressed. We've got work to do."

She walked away, leaving the door open for him to enter. Grissom stepped inside and shut the door, enveloping them in darkness. He let his eyes adjust, not bothering to fumble for a light switch, and made his way to the couch.

He heard the sound of drawers opening as she called to him, "So are you going to tell me what Brass said, or is this going to be another suspenseful car ride?"

He glanced in the direction of her bedroom as she spoke to him, noticing her door was open a crack. He knew he was supposed to look away, he really meant to look away…but instead he felt his heartbeat quicken as she pulled her t-shirt over her head and dug through her dresser for a bra. He could only see the silhouette of her body, the smooth curve of her back, but even that was enough to make his breath hitch.

"Grissom?" She called.

He nearly jumped, tearing his eyes away quickly as he answered, "Well, after you asked me if Shade had a child, I had Brass look into it. It turns out she doesn't have any children, but she does have a younger brother that was in her care at the time of her death." He looked back to see that she had stopped moving, hands dropping from the bra she had been securing. She leaned against the dresser for a moment, gathering herself.

"Where is he now?" she asked, her voice hollow, head bowed.

"Nobody knows," he answered grimly. "We got in contact with Shade's mother after she left a worried message on Shade's machine; she's coming here to talk with us."

"Oh," was Sara's response.

She sounded so defeated, so heartbroken. He wanted to go to her so badly, but he stopped at the door, leaning on the doorframe. "We didn't find any signs indicating a third death," he said softly.

She emerged from her bedroom fully dressed; surprised to see him so close, their faces only inches apart. She whispered so quietly he almost didn't hear, "We didn't find any signs indicating a third life."

XX

Shade's mother sat on a bench in the quiet hallway, her head bowed, red curls falling forward to cover her face. Her hands sat limply in her lap, back slouched in defeat. The very sight of her made Sara's throat ache in empathy. The woman lifted her head as they approached, her watery-blue eyes widening. "Mr. Grissom?" she asked, the pain in her voice was palpable. She rose as Grissom held out a hand to her, taking it and shaking it weakly.

"Ms. Wilson," Grissom said gently, "this is the other lead on your daughter's case, Sara Sidle." Sara nodded at her, not trusting her own voice. The woman looked exactly like Shade, or rather, Shade looked like her; but there was one large difference between them. Even in death, it was obvious that Shade had been a strong, vivacious person; full of life and energy. Her mother however, though obviously kind-hearted, seemed faded somehow, tired and soft-spined, a watered down version of her daughter.

"Please, it's Dana," she corrected, snapping Sara out of her observant reverie. "I want to thank you both for doing this for Shade," she said, her voice cracking.

Sara gathered her strength to speak. "Ms. Wilson – Dana, if you could answer some questions for us it could really be a big help in solving your daughter's case, and may help us discover the whereabouts of your son."

"Jamie," Dana said wearily.

"Jamie." Sara confirmed. "Could you start with why Jamie was with your daughter?"

"Jamie and Shade are so far apart in age – he's only just six – so he hardly ever gets to see his big sister. Shade moved out when she was eighteen, and she's always been so busy with her art…well anyway, she thought she'd take Jamie with her to the exhibition so they could spend some time together. She knew I'd enjoy some alone time, too, so I had a hard time saying no. They were supposed to be back the day before yesterday, but when I called the airline they told me that neither of them had gotten on their flight." She became so overwhelmed with emotion as she finished her explanation she had to sit down, leaning her head against the wall.

"Ms. Wilson," Grissom said softly, "is there anyone you can think of that would want to hurt either of your children?"

"Yes," she answered resolutely. "My ex-husband."

"What makes you think he may have had a part in this?" Sara asked.

"I left him just after Jamie was born. He was…abusive. To me and to Shade; and when I got pregnant with Jamie, I swore I'd do better by him than I did her. I didn't protect her from him like I should have; not then, not now." She broke then, sobbing harshly, passerbys in the hallway looking away.

Sara sat next to Dana Wilson, putting a hand gently on her back. She waited for the older woman to calm herself. "I assume he didn't take it kindly when you left."

"That's one way of putting it," Dana scoffed. "When he found out he called my sister and told her he'd kill us all if he ever saw us again."

"Nice guy," Sara sighed. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"The day I left, five years ago now. He was passed out drunk on the couch."

"Do you really think he's capable of killing your daughter and her friend?" Sara asked softly.

Dana struggled to maintain her composure as she answered, "Yes. But you won't find many people who will attest to that. He has a good reputation in our community. He volunteers, teaches art to highschool kids. Everybody loves him."

Sara and Grissom shot each other looks. "An art teacher?" Grissom asked.

"Y-yes does that mean something?" Dana asked, looking from one to the other.

"It might," Grissom said. "The way in which Shade and Marion were killed hints at the idea of a suspect who is an artist – or fancies himself one."

_If he's good at one thing, _Sara thought, _it's beating around the bush. _"The way in which Shade and Marion were killed"_They were butchered and put on display._

"In just what way were they killed, exactly?" Dana asked, her face showing that she both wanted and dreaded to know the gruesome truth.

"Ms. Wilson, I'm not sure that the details surrounding your daughter's death are something you need to know," Grissom answered, kneeling in front of her.

Dana Wilson stared at him briefly, and then nodded. Grissom looked from Dana to Sara, whose dark eyes were fixated on the red-headed woman. He could tell from the expression on the CSI's face that she felt for the woman; understood her, even.

Knew her.

Perhaps she saw her own mother in Dana, a woman who unlike Laura Sidle, had been strong enough to walk away. He wanted to talk to her about it, but knew that it would have to wait.

"Is this her?" Brass's voice echoed down the hallway. Grissom turned, seeing the gruff officer walking towards him.

Grissom stood and briskly closed the distance between them. "Yes this is 'her' Brass, and let's try and refrain from talking about her like she's not here in the future," he chided.

Brass, ignoring Grissom's lecture completely, asked, "What did she have to say?"

Grissom's blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "We have a suspect."

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"His name is Nathaniel Wilson," Brass's voice boomed over the bowed heads of a mixture of police officers, detectives, and crime techs. They all sat in folding chairs, pens flying furiously as they tried to keep up with Captain Brass's information. "He's six-foot-three, two hundred and thirty pounds with brown hair and eyes. He wears glasses, and is now known to be at large in the Las Vegas area. He's killed two people here, guys, maybe more; so let's consider him dangerous, and assume that he is armed…"

Brass continued his spiel as Sara and Grissom leaned on the wall in the back, arms crossed. "Do you really think this is going to work?" Sara whispered to Grissom, her eyes glued to a headshot of Nathaniel, whose sinister face leered at her from where it had been tacked to the info board.

There were too many people in the room, and it was getting hotter by the second. Sara's warm breath playing across Grissom's ear wasn't helping the situation, not to mention the fact that the smell of her skin was making it increasingly hard for him to concentrate. He straightened a little and she noticed, backing off slightly.

He immediately regretted his unintentional slight towards her, and made up for it by putting a hand on her arm as he answered, "It's worth a shot. We pulled up his credit card and banking information, he's used both at several different hotels, all within a three mile radius of the crime scenes. He hasn't used on in the last few days, so we have no way of pinpointing where he is at the moment, but with this many people canvassing the area, there's a good chance we'll get something out of this. Somebody will have to recognize him."

Her eyebrows furrowed, "It also means that he's being pretty sloppy. "

He nodded, "Either that or he doesn't know we're on to him. Maybe he was counting on us not making the connection to him."

She continued to look ahead, "Why is he still in Vegas? I mean, if he did do it, because I know we don't really have any evidence at the moment to suggest he did; why wouldn't he have gotten as far away from here as possible?" Her voice dropped, "What's keeping him here?"

"Those are a few of many questions that we'll be asking Mr. Wilson when we find him,' Grissom replied.

Brass finished assigning quadrants to the officers, everyone standing in a loud clamber of screeching chairs and shop talk. Sara raised her voice to be heard above the din, "So, where do we start?"

Grissom knit his eyebrows, "Start?" he called above the noise.

"Aren't we going to help with the canvassing?" Sara asked, finally looking away from the photo of Nathaniel. The last stragglers made their way through the labyrinth of folding chairs, leaving the two investigators alone.

"Oh, no. Don't even think about it Sara, I want you to stay at home tonight. Our job is to analyze evidence, not to go on a witch hunt. I'm taking you to your apartment, and since the officer that was assigned to keep an eye on your place has just been dispatched, you're not going to be alone tonight. Got it?"

She was too tired, and frankly too taken aback to do anything in response except nod in agreement. They walked out of the room together, the glossy photo of Nathaniel's narrow face left to stare piercingly at nothing at all.

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The steam filled the room, swirling like a warm fog.

Sara put a toe in the tub, testing the water. Satisfied with the temperature, she lowered herself in and leaned back. She could hear Grissom fussing in the kitchen, most likely regretting his promise to make them both something to eat. Smiling to herself at that, she leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to block out any and all thoughts. But of course, the more she tried not to think about everything that had happened, the more she ended up thinking about it. She began to wonder what Shade's little brother looked like, whether he had red hair like she did, whether he was even still alive. Eyes still closed, she shook her head, trying not to allow her mind to wander to such morbid places.

Taking a deep breath, she became still again, the sound of dripping water from the tub's faucet lulling her into a near meditative state. Beads of moisture ran down her neck. Her hair, held in a loose bun with a pencil, began to cling to her scalp. Sara's chin dropped, slowly coming to rest on her damp chest. She felt her consciousness slipping away, the warm air filling her lungs.

Then she heard something.

A shuffling?

She opened her eyes and looked around. She was alone. Despite the fact that she was sitting in a tub of steaming water, a shiver slithered down her back, cold and clammy.

"Grissom?" she called; her voice cracking, just barely above a whisper.

The only answer to her voice was a soft _clink_, like something had fallen to the ground beside her. She gasped, her body tense, hands gripping the sides of the tub. Sara squeezed her eyes shut, summoning all of her willpower, and then slowly leaned over the side of the bathtub and looked down.

A poker chip sat innocently on the cold tile. Sara's mouth opened slightly in awe. She reached down to pick it up; it's white and pink striped rims smooth as she ran her fingers across it. It was embossed in gold with the name of the Bellagio hotel.

As she turned the chip over in her hands, completely engrossed, the sound of the water dripping from the tub became more constant, louder. It took her a moment to realize that the water had begun to run in a steady stream. Sara glanced up in confusion, a confusion that quickly turned into sheer terror as she saw that the water that ran out of the tap was a dark red.

The thick, murky liquid smelled suspiciously like metal, its acrid scent assaulting her senses. It flowed rapidly towards her like an angry crimson cloud, diffusing through the water, coating her skin.

She screamed at the top of her lungs, tried to stand too quickly, slipped, fell.

She smacked her head on the side of the tub as she plummeted back into the water, and it was this sharp pain that woke her.

She blinked, looking around, breath ragged. The tap was off. There was no poker chip. The water was clear as ever. She could hear Grissom chopping veggies in the kitchen.

She let out a small cry of relief, her whole body shaking. Sara put her face in her hands and sank down into the bath, washing away the cold sweat that had appeared on her skin. Hot tears sprang into her eyes as she asked herself for the millionth time what was happening to her. She sat there, shaking, wondering whether she should tell Grissom or just ignore the dream. After all, maybe if she just pretended it hadn't happened, it would all go away.

Or maybe not.

She felt something cold brush the back of her neck, something that felt a lot like fingers. She screamed bloody murder, lurching out of the bathtub and grabbing a towel, racing to the door. She flew out of the bathroom, feet skidding on the wet tile, and launched into the living room; where a very surprised Gil Grissom stood in the open kitchen wearing an apron, and a shocked expression.

Sara pulled the bathroom door shut behind her, as if to keep out anyone, or any_thing _that may have been waiting in the bathroom. She leaned on the door, trying to quell the panic, heart thumping in her ears. Grissom stared at her unabashedly, concerned and at the same time drinking in the image of the sopping Sara Sidle before him. "Sara?" was all he was able to say coherently.

She looked up at him, as if noticing him for the first time, her eyes dazed. "There was a…I felt something…" Her towel slipped lower, and gathering her wits, she tightened it around herself and walked towards him, the water still running down her legs.

Grissom put down his spatula as Sara came towards him, white as a ghost and shivering. She walked up to him and put her head on his shoulder without a word, leaning on him as she fought off the tears. Grissom hesitatingly put his arms around her, holding her against him. He felt her shivers subside, her heart rate slow.

"Sara, what happened?" he asked softly.

"I think we need to go to the Bellagio," she whispered.

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Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. (commeeeeeeent!)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: See I'm getting better at updating in a timely fashion, aren't I? I hope you like this one, it's pretty dark. Fear not, though, there is light at the end of the tunnel. I hope you all enjoy it, and thanks for reading. – Solomynne

Disclaimer: You know the drill. 

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_I live only to see you live to regret, everything that you've done._

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Grissom knew better than to ask her what had happened in the bathroom.

He didn't know much when it came to Sara, he would be the first person to admit to that, but he at least knew that when it came to opening up about things, she would do it when she was ready; and not a moment sooner. And if that moment never came, so be it then. He would still be right there.

It was that quality of stoicism and independence that so attracted Grissom to her. That being said, it was also what frustrated him the most about her. He liked that despite the on-going battle with her demons, she was still able to carry herself so gracefully; she was still so strong. What he didn't like was that her stoicism often translated into hard-headedness, and that it made it hard for her to let people in; specifically him.

Especially him.

He sat in the hushed silence of the car, waiting for her to change so they could head to the Bellagio. The cars in the street rushed past him in muted fury. He spotted Sara jogging towards him, hair flying behind her. He turned on the car, watching as she approached, sliding into the seat next to him. "Did you call Brass?" she asked, reaching behind her head to grab her seat belt.

"No," he answered as he pulled out of the lot.

"No?" Her eyebrows rose as she quickly turned to look at him.

"Look, Sara, I respect that you won't tell me why we need to be at the Bellagio, or how you came upon this information. I'll go there on blind faith, simply because you say so. 

Brass on the other hand, will not. "

She was quiet, looking out her window, tight lipped and rigid.

"Don't be angry," he said, taking her hand. Her fingers felt so good in his. "Just understand that I don't want to take this to Brass until we have the evidence we need to back it up. Otherwise he'll just see it as a waste of time."

She nodded, turning and giving him a tired smile. Still, it was a smile, and that would do for now. They pulled up at the Bellagio, Grissom miraculously finding a parking space along the street out front. He cut the engine and turned to the brunette beside him. "Now what?"

She looked at him a little uncertainly, the chatter of people walking by filtering into the car. It was clear that up to the point of getting to the Bellagio, she had no real plan; though she was trying her best to make it seem as though she knew what she was doing; and he loved her even more for it. 

The talking outside the car turned quickly from the constant chatter of people walking the streets to something louder, something specific. A face lowered itself into view through the passenger window, just beside Sara's head. It was Nathaniel Wilson. 

Grissom froze as Nathaniel tapped on the window with a slender finger, "How about a sketch of your girlfriend?" He asked through the glass.

Sara went rigid, her dark eyes widening. Her skin went pale as her eyes slid slowly towards the sound of the voice, her head turning until she was face to face with Nathaniel, only a thin pane of glass separating their faces. 

Grissom expected her to shrink away, but she didn't. Instead, her face went blank, showing no signs of recognition. She reached to open the door, Nathaniel backing onto the sidewalk so she could step out. Grissom quickly got out also, walking around the car to stand beside her.

Nathaniel was taller than Sara had imagined, and lanky. His long hair had grown halfway down his back, pulled into a low ponytail. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, a clean one, and half-moon spectacles. Grissom understood why Dana Wilson had said that no one would believe him to be a killer; he looked harmless, like a retired hippy, artsy type.

Sara though could see something in Nathaniel that Grissom could not, a certain glint in his eyes that hinted at something dangerous, and unpredictable. She recognized that look, knew it like she knew her own name; she had lived by that look.

Nathaniel's eyes darted from one to the other, "So we got a deal, or what?"

"Yes," Sara answered calmly. "How much?"

"Twenty dollars," he replied, gesturing towards a fountain where she could sit. "Why don't you take a seat here, a pretty background for a pretty woman." Sara sat where he instructed, trying not to visibly shudder. Grissom stood behind Nathaniel, watching like a hawk, and at the same time texting Brass for back-up.

Nathaniel took out a sketch pad and some charcoal, the lines on his forehead crinkling as he mapped out her face with a professional eye. He paused for a moment. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.

Sara's heart stopped. "No."

"Hm," he mused, "I just have this feeling I've seen you before." Luckily he left the conversation at that, resuming his outline of her delicate jaw. 

Grissom shifted impatiently from foot to foot, praying that one of Brass's canvassers were nearby. He was watching from over Nathaniel's shoulder, and from the rate that Nathaniel was drawing, he'd be done in minutes. 

"Are you from here?" Sara asked him. 

_Good girl, _Grissom thought, _keep him busy._

"No, I'm not;" he answered, "just in town on business."

"You mean drawing?" Grissom asked, gesturing to the sketch.

"What this? Oh, no, I came here for something much more important. Had to tie up some loose ends." 

"Loose ends?" Sara asked through a frozen smile.

"You know those things that you always mean to do, but just never find the time to get around to?" he asked, gesturing with his charcoal pencil. His mouth slowly stretched into an awful smile, a smile that never reached his eyes. "Well I finally found the time."

"And how did that turn out for you?" Sara asked, the smile on her own face fading at the edges. 

He stopped for a moment, looking up at her from behind his glasses. "It was incredible."

Grissom looked at Sara's face then, and saw a flash of raw hatred skip across her features, before her face dissolved back into placidity. She really was quite the actress, and he saw in an instant how many times she must have done the same thing to him; conceal her emotions with a simple soft smile.

Before Sara had any chance to buy them more time, Nathaniel was finished and handing Sara the very impressive sketch he had done of her. Sara reached into her pocket for some money but Nathaniel just pressed the paper into her hands. "Here, take it. Consider it a gift." 

"Oh, I couldn't do that," she answered quickly, taking out a crumpled bill. Her brain raced for any reason to get him to stay, anything so he would stick around long enough for the police to get there. As she brainstormed, digging in her pockets, she felt a strong hand on her wrist and she looked up to see Nathaniel Wilson's face just inches from hers.

"I said it's a gift," he said, squeezing her wrist so tightly she almost cried out, his breath hot on her face. He must have been surprised that he didn't get a squeal out of her, nor anything except a hardened look in her eyes. But then he didn't know he was dealing with a veteran; someone who was used to putting up with bullies. She knew what he wanted and she wasn't going to give it to him. 

He released her and took a step back, looking unsatisfied, turning on his heel and walking away without a word.

Grissom walked over to her. "What the hell was that?"

She looked at him darkly. "I don't know. But we can't lose him, not when we're so close." She folded the picture and put it in her pocket, heading in the direction Nathaniel went. 

"Sara!" Grissom quickened his pace to match hers, "We can't just follow him around all night! We're not even armed."

"Do you have a better idea?" she hissed, grabbing his hand and weaving past a couple who were walking painfully slow. "Let's just keep Brass updated on our location until he can get here!"

They were getting closer to Nathaniel, his height making him easy to spot in the crowd, the space between them just three people deep. They followed him for nearly ten minutes, dodging strollers and street performers, until the group of tourists in front of them took a sharp left, leaving them completely open and visible to Nathaniel should he have decided to turn around. Which, of course, he did. 

Sara noticed his shoelace trailing behind him at about the same moment Nathaniel himself noticed, and knowing what was about to happen, she reacted - fast. As soon as Nathaniel began to slow she pushed Grissom into the path of a tourist aiming his camera at his wife posed with a showgirl, a true Kodak moment. She gripped the sides of Grissom's jacket and pulled him to her, pressing her lips against his just as Nathaniel stooped to tie his shoe, glancing at them as he knelt on the sidewalk. Grissom was as stiff as a corpse for the first few seconds, but even though he didn't really know what was going on, he certainly warmed to the moment. He ran his fingers through her dark curls until he had a tight fistful, pressing her harder against him. His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her hips flush up against him, making a delicious streak of fire fly up her spine. 

"Hey, do you mind!" They pulled apart, dazed, as the irritated voice of the tourist with the camera (from Brooklyn, judging by the accent,) broke the moment. "If you wanted your picture taken you might have asked first, instead of just jumping into my shot. Now, if you'll be so kind?" He waved them aside with his hand.

Sara looked down the street and saw that Nathaniel had seen their display and bought it, continuing on his way. "How about we don't charge you for the show, and we call it even?" Sara smiled, pulling Grissom along behind her.

"That was quick thinking," Grissom commented as they fought to catch up.

"I try," she laughed, still high on their kiss. "Where the hell is Brass, anyway?"

"Not with his phone, I'd venture. I'll try calling dispatch."

"Grissom, wait, look he's turning!" Sara dashed across the street before they lost sight of him, splashing through puddles that reflected the neon street signs surrounding them, sending sparkles of light glittering behind her. Grissom chased along after her as he spoke with dispatch for back-up, following her several blocks to a seedy motel parking lot in a dank side street. Nathaniel's silhouette was the sole figure walking through the bleak night, the glowing ember of a cigarette marking his position like a homing beacon. He stopped, taking a last long drag on his smoke. He looked behind him as he inhaled, Grissom pulling Sara behind a sparse grove of trees growing along the edge of the lot.

The two CSIs stood motionless, pressed against each other in the silence. Grissom pulled Sara up against him so tightly he could feel her heartbeat in his own chest, and her belly pressing up against his abdomen with each breath. Nathaniel stamped out his cigarette and headed for a bar stationed next to the motel. It was a sad looking little place, a red neon sign glowing sinister in the night, calling the lonely and the lost. They waited until he entered the bar, the door swinging shut behind him, before they felt safe to speak again.

"What did dispatch say?" Sara asked in a hushed voice, reluctantly stepping out of Grissom's arms. 

"Their ETA is about five more minutes. Until then we wait."

"You don't think we should check the motel?" Sara asked, looking at him. The harsh glow of the streetlamps stained their skin a ghostly orange. "Let's go see if he's registered so we can get a head start on a warrant."

"I doubt he'd have used his real name Sara, besides what if we go in and he decides to leave the bar?"

"Alright well then I'll go into the motel and you wait out here."

He exhaled, knowing he was fighting a losing battle. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'll go in and talk to the front desk and see if I can figure out what name he's registered under. You wait here – _right here_ – for backup. I don't want any theatrics Sara, don't try and be a hero, don't approach Nathaniel."

"What do you take me for?" She hissed. "I know better than that."

"Alright then," he whispered. "Call me when the police get here. Stay as hidden as you can in these trees." He turned on his heel, then stopped, his face softening. "Be careful. Call me if anything goes wrong."

She nodded, flashing him a crooked smile. Sara watched him walk across the parking lot before turning her attention to the bar. She hadn't seen anyone come or go since Nathaniel had entered, and she was hoping it stayed that way until Brass finally managed to get there. Sara shivered, wrapping her arms around herself as she shifted impatiently from foot to foot. Her senses felt heightened somehow, she was extremely aware of every noise and movement around her. The trees above her rustled in the wind, their branches creaking mournfully. Cars drove past several streets over, the loud thrumming beat of rap music making her sternum rattle.

She felt rather than heard the sound of shuffling footsteps, each one sending a shock of panic zipping up her spine. She wheeled around to see Nathaniel Wilson standing several feet behind her, his arms crossed in amusement. "Are you waiting for something?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

Her heart beat wildly against her ribcage, so loud it made it hard to think. "Yes," she said, in the calmest voice possible. "My boyfriend is just checking out the rooms here. We haven't found a place to stay yet."

"And you figured D street would be the best place for people like you?"

"D street?" She asked, blinking innocently. "Is that bad?"

"Oh, yes; it's quite dangerous around here," he answered, taking a step closer. She instinctually took a step back, stumbling over tree roots before regaining her balance. "You just never know what kind of person you might run into in this area. It's not safe for a beautiful woman like you."

"Well then, I should probably go and tell him to find someplace else," she turned to walk away, but felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder. 

"Why are you following me?" he asked the back of her head.

"I told you I'm not!" she insisted through gritted teeth.

His hand slid lightening-fast from her shoulder to her throat, pulling her back and slamming her into one of the trees. His fingers were tight around her neck, allowing her just enough breath to stay conscious. She looked up at him with a burning hatred in her eyes, her hands tight on his wrists; but she didn't beg, and she didn't cry. She knew better than that. Her childhood may not have been picture perfect, but it had taught her how to survive.

"Are you a cop?" he hissed at her.

"No, I told you, I –"

"Shut up!" he shouted, shaking her so hard her teeth chattered. "Tell me the truth you bitch or I swear to God it will be the last thing you do."

She glared at him, and his grip on her throat tightened. Even as he looked down at her, if it weren't for the unbridled fury blazing behind his half-moon glasses, she would never have suspected him capable of doing what he was doing. She never would have believed him capable of doing what he _did. _

"Well," he growled. "who are you?"

She continued to look at him, her vision starting to swim from the lack of oxygen. Her body felt strange, like it was full of helium and light. He watched, hands still on her throat, as – instead of answering – she passed out. Her eyes glazed over, eyelids falling shut, and her body went limp. He caught her in his arms, leaning her up against the tree and releasing her throat.

"Shit," he whispered, obviously weighing his options. Before he had time to make a decision however, she started to speak.

"Daddy?" she muttered, her head still bowed, hair covering her face. Her voice was higher, different. He didn't answer, hoping she would come to so he could finish his interrogation.

"Daddy?" she asked again, her voice wavering. She sounded familiar, he couldn't make the connection, but he knew that what was happening disturbed him. She slowly began to lift her head, looking at him from behind the curtain of her hair. "Daddy, why did you do it?" She let her head fall back against the tree, her face now unobstructed.

He jumped back, his mouth opening in a stunned terror. Her eyes, which he had been so sure were brown, now glinted a brilliant green. He knew only one other person with green eyes like that, he'd watched the light go out of them himself. "Daddy," she whimpered, reaching for him, "don't you love me anymore?"

He staggered backwards from her, knocking into something behind him. He screamed, wheeling around and finding himself face to face with Brass, who he grabbed by the forearms. Brass pulled free of his grasp, "Whoa buddy, take it easy, we just met." He looked over his shoulder and waved to some fellow officers who stepped forward and took Nathaniel into custody. 

He glanced over in the direction Wilson had been running from and saw Sara leaning against a tree. He jogged over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Sara are you okay?"

She looked at him dazedly, her brown eyes glinting with tears. "I'll be alright," she answered hoarsely. 

"What happened?" he asked, lifting her chin to see her neck, raw and bruised.

"He snuck up on me, while I was waiting for Grissom. He started to choke me, and I guess I passed out."

"Alright, we're getting you to the hospital, where's Grissom?"

"No! No, I'm fine, really. Please, no hospitals," she begged.

"But Sara your neck –"

"Will heal," she finished. "And there's nothing any hospital can do to make that happen faster. Please, Brass. I want to carry the ball over the line, here."

He grunted, and she smiled. They heard a crunching noise and saw Grissom jogging towards them, his feet crushing the leaves on the ground. "Sara, I told you to call me when Brass got here!" he panted.

"Sorry Griss, I guess she was a little too busy being strangled to make any phone calls," Brass answered. Grissom's face slackened in disbelief, turning to Sara to see the purple bruises already appearing on her delicate throat. "Maybe next time you won't leave her standing alone on D Street," he chided, "and maybe you _will_ leave the trailing of suspects to the police."

"Well maybe if it didn't take you a full forty-five minutes to get here, I wouldn't have had to." Grissom replied coldly as he walked over to Sara. He knew Brass was right, and he would later apologize for speaking to him in such a way, but at the moment he was so angry with himself he couldn't control his emotions. He tilted Sara's chin so he could see the damage to her neck. As soon as he recognized the finger marks ringing her throat, he had to look away. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her.

"It's not your fault," she whispered back. "Look, I'm alive; we don't need to worry about me right now. But there's a little boy out there somewhere that does need us, and we have to find him." 

Grissom nodded at her, she was right. He looked for Brass, who had made his way back to the group of policemen. He could see Nathaniel sitting in the back of the cop car, looking white as a ghost. He put his hand on Sara's back and they walked towards the flashing lights of the police car, their faces being washed alternately blue and red. "Have you questioned him?" Sara asked, putting her hand on Brass's shoulder. 

He turned, "Guy says he has no idea what we're talking about, surprise. Doesn't have any kids, never been married. I told him his ex wife identified him, but that didn't seem to phase him. I think he might be high or something, he keeps rambling about somebody's eyes. We'll probably have to wait until he sobers up before we get anything out of him."

Sara glanced towards the police car, making eye contact with Nathaniel. He shrank away from the window, yelling something. The cop standing guard next to the car called to Brass. "Detective? He wants to speak to Ms. Sidle."

Sara and Grissom exchanged looks of surprise. "You don't have to," Grissom whispered.

"I know," she whispered back, heading for the car. 

The uniform had rolled down the window, allowing Nathaniel to speak. He did not look well. "How did you do it?" He asked as Sara approached, his voice shrill.

"Do what?" Sara asked. 

"You were her!" he hissed.

"Who?" Sara questioned, thoroughly confused.

"See? I told you guys, he's a junkie, we're wasting our time," Brass interrupted.

"He seemed completely lucid before," Sara argued.

"What, when he was strangling you?" Brass remarked, eyebrows raised. Sara pursed her lips characteristically. 

"No!" Nathaniel screamed, kicking the seat in front of him. All three investigators jumped in surprise. Nathaniel shimmied as close to the window as he could, his eyes wild. His hair had come loose from its ponytail, and Sara wondered how she could have ever thought this man at least had the appearance of innocence. "You were _her_," he whispered.

Sara looked into his eyes, knowing that something had changed within him. As to what it was, she had no idea. And she didn't really care. She turned away from Nathaniel, to Grissom. "Did you find out what room he's staying in?"

Grissom nodded, "He's under an alias, Reggie Black." Brass snorted at that, but Grissom continued. "The receptionist was able to make a positive ID from the description I gave. He said he didn't remember ever seeing a little boy, but he only works there three days a week."

"How fast can you get a warrant?" Sara asked, turning to Brass.

"You let me deal with that, right now this boy is the priority. Besides if we can talk this guy behind the counter into letting us in, we won't need one."

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It didn't take long to break the receptionist, Brass threatening to have the entire place searched for drugs. The young man handed them the keys to room 408, simultaneously sliding his backpack under the front desk and out of sight. Brass rolled his eyes at that, muttering, "Subtle," and walked away.

He handed Sara the keys and they made their way to the room, everyone stopping outside the worn looking red door. Sara took a deep breath, her palms started to get clammy. She felt a strange energy coming from all around her, the collective anticipation and dread of what might be behind this door. She could see light flickering out under the from under it, the cold, blue light of a television set. Sara put the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door.

There was a collective gasp as it swung open, everyone's eyes falling to the floor in the center of the room. The small body of a boy, perhaps six or seven, lay curled in the fetal position in front of a blaring television set; Ren and Stimpy bouncing around eerily in the background. He did not look alive. 

His scrawny frame was swimming in a pair of overalls that were two sizes too big for him, his pale arms and chest bare beneath the denim. It was clear, even from the doorway, that his tiny limbs and face bore the evidence of abuse, several bruises in different stages of healing marking his flesh. Blood had dried in rust-colored clumps beneath his nose, and gathered around his neck. His eyelids, so thin and pale they were almost blue, were closed beneath a shock of brilliant red hair.

No one wanted to be the first to move, or speak. No one wanted to make the scene before them real; but of the three police officers, two crime scene techs, and one detective, it was Sara who stepped into the room and walked slowly towards the boy. As she got closer, she noticed the tiny toes peeking out from the cuffs of his jeans, and it took all her strength to keep it together. She bit her lip and knelt beside him; noticing the sticky peanut butter that was stuck to his tiny fingers, balled up into fists.

She closed her eyes and took a breath, all thoughts of evidence contamination pushed aside; she reached a hand out to him and placed it on his neck. His skin was cold; she felt no life in it. Grissom, watching her, knew that from that time forward, he would never be able to hear the silly sounds of a children's cartoon show without thinking of this moment; of innocence lost.

He watched Sara put her hand out to the child, and then her face became contorted with emotion. It didn't last long. She let her head fall, her hair covering her face, and when she looked up again her face was hardened. She put one hand under the crook of the child's knees, and the other around his back, picking him up and cradling him to her chest. Though it broke nearly every rule for the proper collection of a dead body, Sara simply looked at them all with an "I dare you" glint in her eyes, and walked past. 

Nobody stopped her.

Nobody moved.

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Thanks so much for reading, comments are love!


	8. Chapter 8

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_A/N: I know, I know, it's been forever and a day. There was an "incident" with my laptop – you can all thank a certain person whose name rhymes with Hairybeth Schlonson for that -- and it had to be reformatted so I lost my fic, but I'm back on track now. I want to thank jenstog specifically for kicking my butt into gear. I hope you all enjoy it, please R&R!_

Disclaimer: Not mine!

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_Static anonymity_.

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He could see there would be no reaching her now.

Grissom watched Sara make her way through the crowd of people in the hall, her eyes hard and hollow. She had the boy's tiny body clutched against her protectively, Jamie's tiny fingers trailing through the air as his arm dangled limply in her hold. She made it to the front entrance, pushing the motel doors open with her foot, and stepping outside. The moon shone down on her in sympathy, glowing sadly in the night sky as she walked stoically across the parking lot. Sara held the child's body tighter against her, trying to protect his bare limbs from the cold. She tried not to think about the fact that he smelled sweet, like laundry detergent and summer apples. She tried not to think about anything.

Grissom followed behind her, keeping a respectful distance. Two EMTs rushed forward as she made her way across the pavement, to the waiting ambulance that Brass had called. They took the boy from her, laying him on a collapsible gurney, shining their flashlights into his eyes. Sara looked on, motionless, her mouth drawn into a grim line. _Just get through this moment, this one moment. Just keep it together for a little longer Sara, just hold on for a little longer. _

One of the med tecs looked at her, as the other began to assess the boy. "Any idea how long he's been like this?"

Her eyes steeled. "Rigor mortis hasn't had a chance to set in yet, death could only have occurred a few hours ago at most."

The medic looked at her quizzically as his partner injected Jamie's tiny arm with something. "Death? Ma'am, this boy isn't dead. He would be, if you hadn't gotten there when you did."

Sara's face was completely blank. She would not allow herself to believe this. Not yet; not until she was sure. "He didn't have a pulse."

"He's in a hypoglycemic coma; his pulse is very weak. It's not uncommon in poor areas, places where people don't get enough to eat. Their blood sugar gets lower and lower, until they pass out. We're injecting glucose directly into his blood stream to bring his sugars up. He should make it."

She blinked at him in disbelief, a tapestry of emotions weaving through her heart. "He's alive?" she whispered.

The EMT ignored her question, distracted by the wounds on her throat. "Ma'am have you been injured? Those look like some severe lacerations on your neck. Here," he walked to the ambulance, reaching into his medkit for an ice pack. He pressed it into Sara's hand, "Try to keep that on your injuries for the next few hours, it'll slow the swelling and redness."

She took the ice pack mechanically, her eyes not leaving his. "He's alive?" she echoed, her voice tight with emotion.

"He won't be for much longer if we don't get him to the hospital," the second medic called from where he was tending to the child. "His pulse is all over the place, blood pressure is dropping. We need to get him stabilized."

They both strapped Jamie into the gurney, securing an oxygen mask over his face as they loaded him into the rig. Sara stepped forward, "I'm coming with you."

The first medic, whose name she noticed was Evans, held a hand up. "I'm sorry I can't allow you to come with us, we've got a full house in here as it is."

Grissom jogged up beside her, "We've called his mother, she'll be waiting for you at Desert Palms."

Evans nodded at him as he reached to close the door behind them, "Thank you."

The door slammed, the sound echoing across the parking lot with a strange finality. The two investigators watched the rig drive away, its lights and sirens blaring in the otherwise quiet night.

Sara stared after the ambulance long after it had gone, and Grissom stood with her. A gentle wind crept across their skin, blowing Sara's curls into her unseeing eyes. All the sounds of police chatter and squawking radios, all the flashing lights seemed far away from them. They were separate from it all.

He saw a shiver course through her body, her long arms were bare in the chill of the night, the hand holding the ice pack still limp at her side. "What are you feeling right now?" Grissom asked her, still staring straight ahead.

She looked at him, her eyes full of emotion.

"Tired," she answered gently, honestly. "I'm so tired Grissom."

"I know," he smiled softly. "Come on, I'll take you home."

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Sara wilted onto her couch, throwing an arm over her head.

"Have you eaten?" Grissom asked, dropping her keys on the counter.

"What do you think?" she asked with a tired smile.

"Shall I order take out?"

"Thanks, but I can't eat right now." She answered, waving a hand in dismissal. She groaned, "I could sure use a drink though."

"So could I," he admitted, walking to her freezer. He opened it and rummaged around until he found what he was looking for, taking out the bottle of vodka. He went to her fridge for orange juice, mixing the drinks with the expertise of a scientist (obviously); and came to sit next to her, handing her a glass. Grissom took a sip of his but she just held hers and watched him in surprise.

He lowered his drink and glanced at her. "What?"

She stifled a smile and leaned back into the couch cushions, never taking her eyes off him. "You drink screwdrivers?"

He smirked. "Catherine got me into them."

Sara laughed into her cup as she drank, her curls falling into her eyes. She gracefully swept them behind her ear, every movement making him want to pull her into his lap and touch her soft, pale skin with his hands; his lips.

The smile faded from her face and she sat up again, her thigh pressing right up against his. She raised her glass and waited until he touched the lip of his drink to hers, looking at him darkly. "To Jamie," she whispered.

"To Jamie," he echoed.

They drank in the child's honor, a child that for all they knew was fighting for his life at that very moment. They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts as they nursed their drinks. "Do you think he's going to die?" Sara asked him, staring at the glass in her hands.

"Kids are resilient," Grissom commented, taking the empty glass from her hand for a re-fill. "Chances are he'll pull through," he said thoughtfully, looking at her over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen, refreshing the drinks.

"Even if he does live he'll never be the same," she whispered.

She was speaking so quietly Grissom wasn't sure if he was meant to hear, but he answered anyway.

"No, you're right. He won't."

"God can only imagine the things he saw, Grissom. Things that no one should ever have to see, especially not a child."

Grissom sat next to her, handng her the glass. "He'll get through it. He'll survive."

She turned her glass in her hands, laughing bitterly. "What makes you so sure?"

He put a hand on her leg, "Just look how you turned out."

She looked up at him, her mouth open in surprise.

"You went through a similar experience Sara, and look where you are. Look at _who _you are."

She laughed again, "I'm a mess! I have more issues than Cosmo magazine."

"No, you're not a mess," he said seriously. "Nobody's perfect. You are a good person. You're smart, and you're brave, and… you're the most stubborn human being I have ever met in my life." They both laughed at that.

She took another drink from her glass, then looked at him for a long time.

"Thank you, Grissom. It's nice to know somebody has faith in me, even when I don't."

Grissom put a hand on the back of her neck, causing a fire to rip through her belly. She looked away, drinking deeply from her glass.

"Go easy on that," Grissom warned gently.

"Don't tell me Brass has been talking to you again," Sara said, rolling her eyes in annoyance.

"We've talked about that, we both know that's not your problem."

"Then what is my problem?" she challenged, her voice dropping. Her eyes were daring him to answer the way they both knew he wanted to.

Grissom swallowed, taking a sip of his drink to buy himself some time. Sara was presenting him with an opportunity, the question was, was he going to take her up on it? He could see the wicked smile tugging at the corner of her red, delicious lips as she watched him squirm. He knew she enjoyed making him uncomfortable, and justly so.

The way she was looking at him was enough to tell him what was on her mind, though he was sure she couldn't be held responsible for the expression of pure lust that graced her features. She didn't realize how much her face gave away her emotions.

"What, no response? Come on, what's my problem?" she teased, resting her elbows on her knees so her shirt gaped open; not enough to be intentional, but enough to drive him crazy.

"Trust," he choked out.

She raised her eyebrows. "Fair enough. I don't trust easily, you're right."

"You don't trust at all," he countered.

"I trust you," she answered seriously.

"I'm not so sure about that," he replied.

She set down her glass, eyes blazing. "How could you say that? After I told you more than I've told anyone else in my entire life? I trusted you even when everything in my experience was telling me not to, when your very actions were telling me not to. You're one of the only people I've ever let into my confidence, my home, not to mention my heart; so don't you dare tell me that I don't trust you Gilbert Grissom."

Grissom could only stare at her, and realize that she was right. The alcohol wasn't enough to make them say things they might regret, but just enough to make them say the things they'd always regretted not saying.

She sighed and took another sip of her drink, waiting for him to say something.

It was silent for a moment, until he sat forward and asked, "Did you just call me Gilbert?"

Her face broke into a smile, and she started laughing, leaning her forehead on his shoulder as she collapsed into a fit of (slightly tipsy) laughter. Grissom started laughing too, if only because he as happy to see her happy. She put her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the laughter that rocked her body, pulling away from Grissom's shoulder only to find herself inches from his face.

Her laughter faded, until it was so quiet they could each hear their own heartbeats pounding in their chests. Grissom leaned in first, Sara taking her cue from him. Their lips met, eyes closing as Grissom's hand came to hold the back of Sara's head. Their kisses were awkward at first, clumsy, both of them so disbelieving that it was actually happening.

But they quickly got used to each other, their kisses becoming deeper, longer, more passionate; Sara moving until she was straddling Grissom on the couch, their bodies on fire. She pulled the hem of his shirt out of his pants, slowly working his buttons undone as their kisses continued.

She slid his shirt off, his undershirt following soon after. She felt his hand dipping into the back of her jeans, and knew that there was no hope for either of them putting a stop to this.

Grissom reached under her top to unhook her bra, his hands surprisingly nimble, but before he could get it off completely there was a knock at the door, loud and intrusive. They froze, glancing at each other quizzically – it was three in the morning.

"Just ignore it," Grissom whispered in her ear. She smiled at him and leaned forward to kiss him in agreement, but the knocker struck again, louder.

"Sara? It's Brass, you home?"

Sara's eyes closed in frustration, knowing she had to answer the door. She leaned her forehead against Grissom's, uttering a quiet _"shit" _before sliding off his lap and heading for the door. She smoothed her hair as Grissom hastily re-buttoned his shirt, trying to look as calm as possible. Sara opened the door, feigning a welcoming smile, "Hey Brass, what's up?"

"Can I come in for a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Sara answered, stepping aside to allow him in. Brass glanced over and saw Grissom seated on the couch, but did nothing more than nod at him before saying what he came to say. "We've got Nathaniel at the station, we're about to interview him and see what we can get. I was on my way there now, thought you might want to come along and sit in."

"Absolutely," Sara answered, both looking forward to and dreading being in the same room as Nathaniel Wilson again. "I'll drive though, and meet you there."

"Sure," he shrugged, turning to leave.

"Hey Brass?" Sara asked. The detective stopped, turning to face her. "…How's Jamie doing?" she asked hesitantly, as though she were afraid of the answer.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? His mom called the station, wanted to let us know he's going to be released from the hospital tomorrow morning. A few minor injuries, but he's going to be fine. All he needed was some food, and his mom."

Sara felt a weight lift from her heart. She had done Shade right, and it felt damn good. "Has he said anything about what happened?"

"They're waiting for a counselor to be available before they bring that up. Social services is sending someone as soon as they can."

Sara nodded grimly, "Okay. Thanks Brass."

Brass nodded, reaching for the door to make his exit, but not before he gave Grissom a secret, congratulatory wink. Before Grissom had time to react, Brass was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Sara didn't even bother closing the door, reaching for her coat and keys. In the back of her mind, she knew she should be an adult and talk to Grissom about what had just happened, but at the moment she couldn't even muster the courage to face him. She hurriedly tried to put her jacket on, praying he wouldn't try to bring anything up just yet. She was aware that he was watching her, and she became so flustered because of it that she got the sleeves of her jacket tangled. She fussed with them, trying to get them apart calmly, and that's when she dropped her keys. At that point she gave up, letting her body become still, dropping her head in submission. She closed her eyes and took at breath, gathering the strength to face Grissom, scrounging the willpower to feign aloofness if he decided to tell her it was all a mistake.

But when she opened her eyes, he was right there in front of her. Her picked up her keys and put them in her hand, then took her jacket and straightened it out, holding it for her to put on, looking at her with an amused expression on his face. She stepped forward and put her arms through the sleeves, letting Grissom turn her to face him so he could zip it up for her. She felt his breath warm on her face, his hands sliding up her arms to rest on her slender shoulders. He leaned in and kissed her gently, resting his forehead on hers. She closed her eyes, lost in everything that was him. "Ready?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she answered.

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Nathaniel Wilson had managed to regain some of his composure in the last few hours, and he now sat calmly at a table in the interrogation room. His face was stony, his eyes sharp. When Sara entered the room and sat across from him, he flinched, but said nothing.

"Good evening, Nathaniel," Sara greeted jovially. "Or should I say, morning?" she puzzled, waving a hand indifferently, "Ah I can never keep it straight. That's what working graveyard will do to you."

"What are you doing here, bitch?" he growled.

"Oh, I'm here to watch you get nailed to the wall," Sara answered brightly.

He glowered at her and said nothing. Brass entered the room, sitting next to her, a notepad out and at the ready. Grissom had opted to watch from behind the two-way, Sara could feel his gaze on her, and it gave her strength.

"Nathaniel!" Brass bellowed, "looking better than the last time I saw you. Ready to talk?"

"I have nothing to say to you," he said icily.

"Waiting for an attorney?" Brass inquired.

"I don't need a lawyer to tell you that I'm innocent," Nathaniel sneered.

"You're right, you don't," Brass agreed. "The only problem with that is, _you're not_."

Nathaniel scoffed, but again kept his mouth shut.

"Mr. Wilson," Sara interjected, deciding to try a different tactic, "we have some pretty powerful evidence against you here. You're not helping yourself by keeping quiet. If you can explain just what happened here, maybe we ask the DA not to go for the death penalty."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of bribe? Confess and maybe you won't die? You're fucking nuts, lady."

Sara glared at him, willing herself to remain calm. "Look, you can deny your relation to Shade Wilson all you want; a simple DNA test will confirm that you're lying."

"Fine," he growled, "she was my kid. So what? That doesn't mean that I killed her."

"Well we have a witness that will probably say otherwise," Brass countered.

"Oh yeah?" Nathaniel sneered, "who would that be? The tooth fairy?"

"No, your other child, Jamie," Sara spat. Nathaniel's face froze. "What, you thought he was dead?" Sara challenged. "Yeah so did we. Turns out we were wrong." Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably. "So like I said, we've got some pretty damning evidence against you. Just admit that you killed the girls, and we'll talk."

"Wait, hang on a second," he breathed, beginning to look like a trapped animal. He knew they had him. "Look maybe something happened with Shade and maybe it didn't, but I definitely didn't hurt anyone else. That other chick was not my idea."

"You mean Marion?" Sara asked, her back stiffening.

"I _mean_ you can't kill two women at the same time," he answered.

"So you had an accomplice," Brass stated.

Behind the glass Grissom chided himself for not figuring that out. Now he realized that with the sheer amount of time it must have taken to create those scenes, one man could never have done it alone.

"Who?" Sara asked, echoing Grissom's last thought.

"Now _that_, is what's going to keep me from getting the needle," Nathaniel grinned.

Sara slammed her hand against the table, making the man leering at her jump. "Tell me, goddamn you!"

Nathaniel just laughed, putting his hands behind his head smugly. "I want a lawyer,"

"You son of a bitch," Sara snarled. Brass put a hand on her shoulder.

"That's it; we're done until he finds representation. We don't want to lose this guy on a technicality."

He was right and Sara knew it. She stood abruptly, sending her chair skittering backwards, and walked out of the room. Her insides were boiling with rage, her mind reeling. She tried to push the image of Nathaniel Wilson's mocking face from her mind, physically shaking her head as she pushed her way through the front doors of the building.

It was a warm night, the stars twinkling down at Sara as she leaned against the outside wall of the crime lab, the cool brick against her skin calming her nerves.

She closed her eyes and breathed, trying to relax her mind. After a few moments a faint shuffling sound drew her attention, and her mind quickly flashed back to the last few terrifying moments in her bathroom. Sara's eyes snapped open, but instead of anything out of the ordinary, she saw Grissom's face only inches from her own. He leaned on the wall next to her, looking up at the sky. "You okay?" he asked after several moments of silence.

"Yes," she replied quietly. "Just…frustrated. I thought if we got Nathaniel…"

"That it would all be over," Grissom finished for her.

She nodded. "But it's not. There's somebody else out there that needs to pay for what was done to Shade and Marion. I mean we don't even know _why _the women were killed. And why the necessity for such an elaborate staging of the bodies?"

"What are you going to do if we never find out the answers to all these 'whys'?" Grissom asked, looking at her face. She was frowning up at the sky, the starlight reflected in her eyes.

"I'll bury it. In the back of my mind, with all the other ghosts in my life."

"Living with ghosts, that doesn't sound like much of a life."

"It's not," she said bitterly, "believe me. But it's worked for me up until recently."

He watched her face as he asked, "And now?"

She looked at him resolutely. "Now? Now I'm ready for a change. I'm tired of living half a life. I want to live all the way."

Grissom raised an eyebrow, "Well as Gandhi once said, 'we must be the change we wish to see in the world'. And in your own life, Sara."

She smirked, "Well I believe it was Gil Grissom who once said 'what we are never changes, who we are never stops changing."

He smiled, "Still taking notes on everything I say?"

She poked him in the stomach playfully, "Well _some_ things never change."

They laughed softly in the darkness, Grissom reaching out to touch her face. " Come on, let's go solve this case. We have some ghosts to put to rest."

She sighed, pushing herself off from the wall, gesturing with her arm towards the lab, its glowing screens and sterile smell awaiting them.

"After you," she said gently.

"No." He took her by the hand, and she raised her eyebrows at his protest.

"Together."


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